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She greeted him 
with a bright smile and a 
‘‘Howdy, Uncle Gabriel.’’ 


ALMETT A 
OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


By 

LOUISE S. MURDOCH 

U 


lllustrateD 



THE MERIDIAN PRESS 
NEW YORK 




Copyright, 1917, by 
LOUISE S. MURDOCH 



NOV 27 1917 


©CU4792r)0 


1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Gabriel’s Run 1 

II Gran’s Schooling 19 

III The Straight of the Story 32 

TV The Wants of a Woman 51 

V Love and Wisdom 68 

YI In Memoriam 91 

VII Almetta’s Schooling 116 

VIII The 'Working” 150 

IX Teacy Gossips 180 

X Almetta Disappears 197 

XI Gran Leaves for the West 218 

XII Talitha Cumi 232 


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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


rACINQ 

PAGE 

She greeted him with a bright smile andl a ^‘Hlowdy, 

Uncle Gabriel’^ Frontispiece 

‘‘She throwed up her hands and screeched to the top 

uv her voice ‘Stone dead ” 144 

Orlena made Almetta sit down with the men while she 

waited upon all 234 



ALMETTA 

OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


> 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S 
RUN 


I 

GABRIELES RUNT 

M any years before Almetta’s day her fore- 
bear, Gabriel Recording Angel, had come 
from ‘‘Carliny’’ through the Gap. He came in 
quest of deer and bear and wild honey. Find- 
ing them in abundance, with wild turkey and 
other game, he settled on a large creek in the 
wilds of the Cumberland Mountains. 

On his return from his second trip back to 
the settlement with pelts and honey, he brought 
a young wife to his half-camp in the deep woods 
of Kentucky. This ‘‘camp’’ was a rude shelter 
of three log walls and a split board roof without 
either chimney or flue. The ash-cakes were 
baked and the venison spitted at a fire built 
upon the ground just outside the open end of 
the camp. The eating was good and the ar- 
rangement pleasant when the smoke went 
straight up or blew away from the camp. 

Tradition said that the young wife was fair 
and brave and strong. All of which was well, 
for it was indeed a wild and lonely place in which 
the Angels h^d set up their household gods^ 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


with wildcats and poisonous snakes abounding, 
and an occasional lurking Indian. 

Little flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked Flora An- 
gel needed all the strength of her sound, well- 
knit body and all the cheerfulness and courage 
with which she was blessed. It was their 
second and last year in the half-camp, and 
‘^Dogwood winter’’ was chilling the heart of 
May, when twins were born to Eec and Flora, 
a dark little boy and a fair little girl : and their 
father, Gabriel Kecording, opened the Bible at 
random to And their names. 

Flora’s brother and his wife, Dan and Susan 
Ingold, had come out from Carolina to he their 
neighbors ; and Flora conflded to Susan that if 
it were not for its being such a scary place to 
live in anyhow she would not give the children 
Bible names, in spite of all the Angels in ^^Kain- 
tuck” and ‘‘Carliny”; ‘‘But Eec’s folks,” she 
said, “had allers foUered it and it seemed a had 
time to change the custom.” Flora meant to 
be pious for the good luck of the children, and 
so they were named Nathan and Talithy Cumi^ 
as many other Angels have been since. 

Flora and Susan rocked them in half a hollow 
log, dosed them with strong herb tea, and 
minded the bears and “catamounts” out of the 
open end of the shack, while their husbands put 
in the small crops of corn and tobacco and cut 
and hewed the logs for their two new cabins. 
The Ingolds’ was to be at the mouth of the next 
creek below. Each house was to have one room 
with four complete log walls, a chimney with a 
great open fireplace, and a strong batten door. 


GABRIEL’S RUN 

It was the first winter in the new cabin that 
a huge brown bear came between Eec and his 
rifle in one of his rare unguarded moments and 
gave him the chase of his life. Indeed he was 
only saved by the timely intervention of his 
wife, who checked the beast upon the step^block 
at the door with a dash of boiling suds and 
slammed and barred the door during the recoil 
of the animal ; and so the creek came to be 
known as ‘^GahriePs Eun’’ among the settlers 
who were coming every year in great numbers. 

But all this was more than a hundred years 
ago, and nobody ever thought now of either 
coming from or going to ^‘Carliny through the 
Gap,’’ or any other way, and those times were 
spoken of as ‘‘old” and “quare.” 

^ A stranger from the settlements might have 
ridden the length of Gabriel’s Eun after the 
more than hundred years and still called it wild 
and sparsely settled, hut there were homes and 
fields in the valley of Gabriel, and plenty of folk 
who lived and worked, or idled, in them, from 
the head, where Bee-Tree Branch, and the Still- 
House Pork met in a deep cool gorge at the foot 
of Indian Head Hill, down to the mouth, where 
it twisted and turned, making a double S before 
cutting through the high banks into the river. 

There were Angels and Ingolds living there 
and close about, descendants of old Eec and old 
Dan, who scarcely counted themselves akin. 

It was a beautiful valley. The clearings on 
the steep mountain sides were in patches, and 
much of the forest almost virgin, though many 
a giant tree had gone the way of the river. 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


Only the great rotting stumps of the black wal- 
nuts were left to tell of their former glory, and 
of the periods when our grandfathers finished 
the interiors of their brick houses with this rich 
wood, duly covering it with white enamel paint ; 
and Qur fathers furnished them with ugly top- 
heavy furniture of the same ; relegating cherry 
and even mahogany and rosewood four-poster 
beds and chests of drawers and drop-leaved 
tables, to attics, back halls and servants’ quar- 
ters. 

Almost anything will grow on the hillsides 
and in the valleys of the Kentucky mountains, 
and there was always something blooming, 
from the tulip poplars, bearing their yellow 
cups a hundred feet in air on the tops of high 
ridges, to the lovely pink moccasin flowers 
blooming at their feet. There were medicinal 
herbs and barks in endless variety, wild alum 
to draw with, slippery elm to soothe, Indian 
hemp for rheumatism, mullein (to be sweetened 
with honey) for coughs, percoon. May apple, 
yellow root, seven barks, all for the ailments of 
the white man’s body, and ginseng (called 
sang) to be dug and sold at fabulous prices — 
sometimes five or seven dollars a pound — to be 
shipped abroad to relieve the minds of the 
Chinese. ‘ ‘ Sanging ’ ’ was remunerative and de- 
lightful work. Nothing was pleasanter than to 
take a hoe and roam the woods, looking for the 
interesting plants whose leaves were different 
every year, being, two-prong,” ^Hhree- 
prong,” ^ffour-prong,” etc., according to age, 
and any one of which could be easily mistaken 
4 


GABRIEUS RUN 


for tlie rattleweed or some other plant. Many 
a dress of ‘‘brought on^^ cloth, or gay ribbon 
was traded for at the little stores with small 
“pokes’’ of ginseng, yellow root or May apple. 

’Twas easy to live in these productive val- 
leys, where so many things grew themselves, 
with honey in the hollows of the forest trees for 
sweetening ; and a crop of corn could be planted 
and “laid by” in three months. And so, with 
their sheep browsing on the hills, and hogs liv- 
ing on the mast, the Angels and Ingolds and 
other families which had drifted in, took out a 
few rafts of logs on the river tides and found 
little to worry about and nothing to blame God 
for. If they were not particularly religious 
their prejudice was in favor of being so, and 
blasphemy against the “Old Man” was the most 
condemned sin of the section. Their young 
people, having few diversions, married in their 
early teens, asking no hard questions of life as 
to how they would live and raise large families. 
A kindly Providence took most of the physical 
weaklings to Himself in their early years. 

Gabriel’s Run itself was usually a small 
and peaceful stream, its waters limpid, with 
holes where black bass lurked and shoals 
where schools of minnows played. 

In the mountains more real interest follows 
the streams than any other thing, and a flux of 
waters will rouse the people as neither birth 
nor death, nor even a killing. 

In dog-days the running water was a tiny 
thread between the “retches” (reaches) and 
deep holes and only the wide expanse of dry 


ALMETTA OF GABRIELS RUN 


bed and the water marks along the banks, per- 
haps a dried corn stalk or a bunch of brown 
leaves caught in the branches of some over- 
hanging tree, gave hint of the water’s freakish 
ways or the height to which it sometimes went. 

In time of tide — and a tide might come at 
any time of the year — Gabriel’s Eun came 
down, a tawny, twisting, roaring flood, bearing 
on its mottled bosom anything which grew or 
had been left upon its banks. Logs, tides, drift- 
wood, limbs of trees, fence rails and much rich 
earth were its usual burden, diversified by green 
mementoes of the growing crops, utensils from 
the farms or homes, a whole tree uprooted and 
borne along, or a dead animal drowned in the 
sudden freshet. These torrents often came in 
a few minutes, and human beings had to 
scamper for their lives. A woman’s washing 
kettle, half full of clothes, with the ‘‘poking 
stick” borne aloft like a masthead, had come 
bobbing merrily along one day on the bosom 
of the rising tide, and was salvaged by a neigh- 
bor further down, who stoutly declared that it 
was still boiling when brought to shore. The 
creek was boiling at any rate, and flinging yel- 
low suds of foam. 

Once a house had been lifted from the left 
bank and set down half a mile below, on the 
right bank, nicely turned around to face the 
creek, and the owner was much pleased with the 
change, regretting that the barn and the crib 
had not come along also. 

The official county road followed the creek 
and was really in its rough bed much of the way, 


GABRIEUS RUN 


thougli there were occasional smooth stretches 
along its banks or over a knoll. 

It was in the late eighties of the last century 
that a gray old man riding up the creek and a 
fair young girl walking down met on a sandy 
stretch of road beside a pair of low bars. They 
were both Angels, both descendants of Gabriel 
Recording, but they were more conscious of the 
tie of affection between themselves than of 
blood relationship. 

The girl was little and blonde and rosy, like 
Flora Angel, but not so sturdily built — in fact 
she was slender and light. A stout pair of 
shoes, tied together by the strings, was slung 
across her left shoulder, a bundle done up in a 
large blue handkerchief hung from her left 
elbow, and in her left hand she carried a small 
bunch of ‘‘blossoms’’ and tender sweet 
“fyerns” (ferns). In the right hand she car- 
ried a long limber switch, and was flicking up 
the dust with it in occasional little spurts as she 
came slowly and dreamily along. 

When she saw the old man ambling up on his 
fat, flea-bitten white horse, she perched upon 
the bars at the side of the road and waited for 
him. As he rode up alongside and drew rein, 
she greeted him with a bright smile and a 
“Howdy, Uncle Gabriel.” 

“Why, howdy, Almetty,” he said, with an 
answering smile; “you air a sight fur sore 
eyes.” 

“Your eyes don’t look sore, Uncle Gabriel,” 
she said. 

The old man chuckled, and his black eyes 

7 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 

twinkled under the bushy gray eyebrows. He 
saw the bundle hanging from her elbow, but 
said nothing about it. 

'^How is all at Ed^ard’sT’ he asked. 

‘‘Ay, they are all stirring.’’ 

‘ ‘ How is that little boy of Alif ar ’si I hyeard 
one of her young ’ns was aildin.” 

“It’s Jimmy,” said the girl, with a look of 
tender concern. “Poor little fellow, he’s 
mighty weak an’ spindlin’; he’s fell away a 
sight and don’t eat as much as a bird.” 

“Huh,” said the old man sympathetically, 
“an’ what air they a doin’ fur him!” 

“Well, Granny has been dostin’ him with 
every kind of tea that could be made, and Ali- 
fair has had the charm doctor, but he ain’t 
mended none. Granny Ann ’lows he needs 
doctor medicine, she reckons, but Ed’ard won’t 
send fur none.” 

Uncle Gabriel nodded his head in silence, and 
the girl continued, “All of Alif air’s young ’ns 
air sorty pale and frothy looking an’ don’t sleep 
good. I ’lowed they needed more room in bed, 
an’ I’m letting them have what I took.” She 
spoke quietly and earnestly and the old man did 
not doubt her, yet he asked, 

“Wan’t you farin’ all right at Ann’s!” 

“Shore, I wuz farin’ fine,” she said, “but 
everybody has been scrouged since Alifair and 
the young ’ns come home, and they had the best 
rights.” 

“Shore, shore, Alifair has had a heap of 
trouble sence her man got killed ; and where air 
you started now, with your budget ! ’ ’ 

8 


GABRIEUS RUN 

“Well, I ain^t started no particular place/ ^ 
she said. ‘^Granny Ann made me promise not 
to go fur, and to come back ’gainst cold weather. 
She ’lowed they had the most room at John- 
nie’s, and the most to eat at Red Ike’s, and she 
knowed I could get to stay at one or the t’other, 
but hit ’s’ been so pretty along the creek this 
mornin’ that I just come on by both places with- 
out stoppin’.” 

The old man was turning things over in his 
own mind and only said ^‘Uhuh!” 

‘‘I jest been sa’nterin’ along,” she said, first 
smelling and then kissing the bunch of blossoms 
in her hand, pluckin’ the fyerns and blossoms ; 
sorty hatin’ to take up anywheres, and sorty 
wishin’ I wuz a diadapper.” 

‘^Wishin’ you was a diadapper!” said the 
old man, astonished. 

‘^Yes,” she said with a merry twinkle; 
‘Ghey’s the most independent critters, they is, 
with more kinds o’ nater.” 

‘‘Yes,” said the old man slowly, “I reckon 
they is plum independent.” 

“Yes,” said Almetta, “I seen one a while 
ago; he was a-swimmin’ along on top of the 
water like a duck, and when he seen me he dove, 
and swum to the end uv the retch like a fish, and 
then he riz and whirled off to the woods like a 
pat’tage. One pears to suit him pime blank as 
well as ’nother. Ef I wuz like that, an’ could 
breathe in air er water, you wouldn’t ketch me 
herdin’ with nobody.” 

“Well, they must be somethin’ said in favor 
of bein’ a diadapper,” said Uncle Gabriel, 
9 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


smiling, ^^but they is sorty quare turned, and 
mighty unsociable. I^d low you’d druther be 
one of these here little wrennie birds, what sets 
on high places close to somebody’s house and 
sings so beautiful.” 

The word ‘‘beautiful” is not used commonly 
in the rural districts of the mountains, and 
when a special loveliness calls for it each syl- 
lable is given full accent, and it is more mean- 
ingful than we have it in the towns. Uncle 
Gabriel’s description of the wren caught the 
girl at once and she exclaimed, “Shore, I’d 
druther be a wrenny bird. ’ ’ 

“I knowed in reason it’d suit you a heap the 
best.” 

“Well, I can sing funeral hymns, like Philip 
Gayheart, or song ballets like Mary Betts, and 
I could sing ditties, like Hence Duke, but 
Granny Ann won’t let me.” 

“No, you ain’t no business singin’ ditties,” 
said the old man. 

“How would you like to go down to the mouth 
of the creek and stay with Orleny Ingold ?” 
he asked, giving a practical turn to the conver- 
sation. 

“I might like hit, all right, but ain’t hit a 
mighty fur piece?” she asked. 

“Ay, it’s a right smart step, but you just 
cross the bars here and go into Peter’s and 
stay with Polly till I come back down by this 
arternoon, and I’ll take you right to Orleny ’s 
myself. Hit’s pretty nigh noon now,” he 
added, squinting at the sun. 

“All right,” she said; “I reckon Granny 
10 


GAB R IE US RUN 


Ann wouldn’t care. I just ’lowed when I seed 
you cornin’ that I’d set right here on these bars 
and wait for counsel;” and then she added 
quietly, ^^Hit ain’t the fust time you have lifted 
me out of the road, Uncle Gabriel.” 

As the old man was about to ride off she 
asked — ^^How is Sid, Uncle Gabe?” 

‘‘Why, they don’t ’pear to be nothin’ the mat- 
ter with Sid,” he replied. “He’s very hearty 
and minds well enough, I reckon. You’ll get to 
see him right along down to Orleny’s.” 

Almetta sat on the bars a long time after the 
old man rode on, stirring the dust occasionally 
with her switch, enjoying the loveliness of the 
day, but thinking most of the time long ago 
when Uncle Gabriel had found her a home after 
her mother’s death, and had himself taken her 
brother Sidney. After a while she slipped 
down on the other side of the bars and went in 
to dinner with Peter’s Polly, whose house was 
just out of sight around a spur of the foothills. 

She and Polly and the children were at the 
bars when Gabriel returned in the afternoon. 
Polly declared that she would be “plum glad to 
keep Almetty” herself, and urged Gabriel to 
“light and take a night” with them, but he said 
he must be gittin’ back and had sorty promised 
Orleny to find her a good girl, and he reckoned 
Almetty had better go on. 

Gabriel lived on the next creek above Ga- 
briel’s Run, and it would take steady riding to 
get him home before dark. Almetta mounted 
behind and they rode off down the creek, a griz- 
zled old man and a fair little girl, in perfect 
11 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


contrast outwardly, but with hearts as much 
alike as two white blossoms on one stem. 

Almetta had many questions to ask about 
Sid, whom she had not seen for a year and she 
and Gabriel chatted or rode in agreeable silence 
for a couple of hours, and the shadows were be- 
ginning to lengthen when they drew rein in 
front of Jimmy Ingold ^s double log-house, 
which stood on the identical spot where old Ga- 
briel Eecording AngePs half-camp had stood 
so long ago. 

Gabriel called Orlena down to the fence, and 
after a stiff argument as to whether he should 
light and take a night with them, he asked Or- 
lena, 

^^Did I hear you was wantin’ a smart gal to 
help do the things?” 

‘‘Well, yes,” she said, “I am. I hain’t no 
regular help in the house since Suze married.” 

“Well, I hyeard you hadn’t, and I have been 
sorty lookin’ around fur a gal fur ye.” 

“ I ’ve been sorty waitin ’ fur Bob ’s Lize, ’ ’ said 
Orlena, “but Jimmy hyeard a Sunday that her 
and Clint had run off and got married. ’ ’ 

“They did,” said Gabriel; “they shore run 
off; I hope they got married.” 

‘ ‘ Wuz you thinkin ’ you could find me a smart 
little gal?” the woman asked, as her eyes rested 
kindly on Almetta. 

“I ’lowed I mought,” he said. 

“I reckon she wouldn’t be fur to go to find?” 
suggested Orlena. 

“Not fur.” said the old man. 

Almetta had pushed her sunbonnet back and 
12 


GABRIEUS RUN 


was smiling in a friendly way at the discussion. 

‘^Well, now, Uncle Gabriel, ain’t she a very 
small pattern!” questioned Orlena. 

‘‘Yes, she is full small, but I allow being will- 
ing and smart adds to a body’s size.” 

“Hit does, hit does,” said Orlena. “An’ 
whose gal is she! She’s a pyore Angel I can 
see that without bein’ told.” 

“Yes, she’s a Angel, and a good bit of kin to 
you, I reckon. She’s lame Nat’s gal, and both 
her parents is dead.” 

“Why, shore, I know about her; she’s been 
stayin’ up at Ed’ard’s, ain’t she!” 

“Yes, she’s been at Ed’ard’s, and a gettin’ 
along moughty well. Ann didn’t want her to 
leave, but Alifair has had to take and go back 
home with her young ’ns, and this little gal is 
needin’ another home.” 

“And what do they call you, honey!” Orlena 
asked the girl. 

“Almetta.” 

‘ ‘ And how old mought you be ! ” 

“I’ve been turned into fifteen since the fif- • 
teenth of April.” 

“Well, Gabriel,” said Orlena, “ef you will be 
to go on yourself, ride up to the stileblock and 
let this little gal down. ” 

“I’ll jest git otf here,” said the girl, and had 
sprung lightly to the fence and was standing in 
the grass by Orlena ’s side before Uncle Gabriel 
had time to cluck to the old white horse. 

“Why, she is pime blank like a gray squir- 
rel,” said the woman. “I hate to see you 
leavin’, Gabriel, and hit time to raise the sup- 
13 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


per smoke. You ain^t et a mess with us in 
allers.’^ 

“I’ll be down and take a mess with you be- 
fore long. You come and see us, Orleny.” 

“I will; you come down.” 

“Well, you come. Be a good gal, Almetty, 
and Sid and me will be down before long to see 
how you are farin’.” 

“Well,” said the girl soberly, as he rode off, 
and she turned toward the house with Orlena. 

There was nobody about but herself and the 
woman, and it semed very still and strange. 
She sat down upon the porch and answered 
very readily Orlena ’s questions about Granny 
Ann and Alifair and her children, and various 
folk up the creek. She did promptly the er- 
rands to the woodpile and spring, in prepara- 
tion for the evening meal, but the smile did not 
come back to her face until she went with Or- 
lena to mind the “gap” as the older woman 
milked. The strong hungry little calf, with one 
white foot, kept her busy and dispelled, with its 
capers, the loneliness which threatened her. 

“You ficety little ‘Whitefoot,’ ” she ex- 
claimed, holding it around the neck. 

“Well, I reck^on that settles it,” said Orlena. 
“Gran ’lowed we’d have to name it ‘White- 
foot.’ ” 

“Is Gran your boy?” 

“No, he is the boy that lives here and works. 
I ain ’t got nary single boy. ’ ’ 

“Have you a single gal?” 

“No, my young ’ns is all married and gone — 
all that lived to be growed up. ” 

14 


GABRIEUS RUN 


Almetta did not speak for a while, and then 
asked, ‘^Air you and Jimmy and Gran and me 
all that stays hereT^ 

“Yes, we are all that lives here regularly.” 

“Hit ’pears like a pretty small family for 
such a big house.” 

“Yes, hut betwixt river-men and travelling 
men, and so on, we have a good many pas- 
sengers stoppin’ — somebody ever’ week or such 
a matter, and hit ain’t no ways lonesome, arter 
a body gits used to the place. ’ ’ 

Supper was about ready when Jimmy and 
Gran came in from work. Almetta had rung 
the farm bell and was coming up on the porch 
with a bucket of water for the washing bench as 
they came up. They all said “Howdy.” Al- 
metta set her bucket on the bench and went on 
to the kitchen. Jimmy made his toilet and 
went into the “upper house.” Gran had 
soused his face and head in the pan and dried 
them on the towel when Almetta returned. 

^ ^ Gran, ’ ’ she said ; ‘ ^ Orlena says did you tell 
Teacy Price to come down here in the morning 
and help to plant the taters ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Gran, carefully parting his hair 
in front of the little mirror with a small comb 
he had taken from his pocket. “Teacy said tell 
her she’d be here shore.” 

The woman and the girl waited upon “the 
men” at supper, and after washing and putting 
away the vessels and dishes sat for a while on 
the porch with them, while first Jimmy and 
then Orlena took a short smoke from the same 
pipe. Orlena did not smoke enough to keep a 


ALMETTA of GABRIEL’S RUN 

pipe of her own, but occasionally enjoyed the 
use of her husband ^s in leisure moments. 

Jimmy called attention to the little ‘‘dry’’ 
new moon, a tiny silvery quartercircle lying on 
its back, just above the western hills. 

“What makes hit dry, Jimmy?” asked Al- 
metta. 

“Why, hit’s layin’ level with both horns 
straight up, and hit can’t spill the water that- 
er-way,” said Jimmy, in all seriousness. 

“Well, that’s lamed me something,” said 
the girl. “I’ve allers heard of ‘dry’ moons and 
‘wet’ moons, but I never knowed afore what 
made ’em.” 

“Yes, we’ll have a dry month for the plowin’ 
and plantin’ apter than not,” said Jimmy. 

“And then ag’in,” said Gran dryly, “we may 
have a cloud-bust”; and added that his pap 
allers laid his good luck to his own smartness 
and his ill luck to the moon. 

“Well,” said Orlena, “she” (the moon) 
“don’t allers hit, but I’d a leetle druther have 
her fur me than ag’in me. I ain’t found no 
better time to plant taters than a dry dark moon 
in April, though some contends fur March.” 

The nights were cool and they did not linger 
on the porch. Gran slept in the loft, and when 
Orlena showed Almetta the big feather bed in 
the other corner of the room from hers and Jim- 
my’s the girl looked at it almost ruefully. 

The ash bedsteads had been well made, by 
hand, years ago, and time and use had brought 
the wood to a beautiful satin finish. The 
comer posts, standing about four feet, were 
16 


GABRIEUS RUN 


square and stout, each surmounted with a well- 
turned round ball. The head and foot boards 
were plain, and each bed had a feather tick over 
a straw tick, and over the covers was drawn 
smoothly a gay calico quilt with a great learn- 
ing star radiating from its middle. 

‘^Hit peers like a pity to tear hit up fur jest 
one little gal. IVe been a-sleepin^ on a pallet 
with three of Alifair^s young ’ns, and I may 
not rest well in such a fine bed all to myself,” 
she demurely said, as she slipped out of her out- 
side dress and crept under the quilts in the 
dress she was wearing for an ‘‘undercoat.” 
‘ ‘ Lize can have my place on the pallet to-night, 
and Jimmy will have more room in his bed. 
Pore little fellow, I wonder how he is by now?” 

“I ’low he is sound asleep,” said Orlena. 

“Yes, I reckon he is. I hope he is a whole lot 
better by now. Hit ’pears like hit’s been 
better ’n a month sence I seen any uv them.” 
She lay quietly for a. long time and Orlena had 
fallen asleep when she finally observed, 

“I reckon I told Granny Ann a little story 
this mornin’, but I didn’t aim to. I told her I 
wouldn’t go fur, and here I am clear down to 
the mouth uv Gabriel, in a plum strange place. 
I reckon hit’s the nicest place on the river, 
hain’t Orlena ’s?” She took the woman’s si- 
lence for modesty, and asked, “Ain’t hit quare 
how fur a person can go in a day?” 

The only answer was a purring breath, and 
she nestled down in the feathers with the final 
observation, “Huh, that old woman’s asleep!” 

Almetta belonged to that large class of or- 
17 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


phaned or unfortunate children who are accus- 
tomed to changing homes at irregular intervals, 
according to their own fancy or the convenience 
of others. She slept soundly in Orlena^s big 
bed, under the great ‘‘learning star,’’ and 
dreamed that she and Peter’s Polly had come 
one hundred miles in a white boat and that 
Polly had suddenly turned to a diadapper and 
flown back while she had stayed to sing. 

The next morning after the housework was 
done she took the brush-broom, of her own ac- 
cord, and when Teacy Price came to help with 
the potatoes she found her sweeping the spot of 
bare ground in front of the porch until it fairly 
shone, and singing a song the burden of which 
was: “Mothers have a home, sweet home. 
Fathers have a home, sweet home. Sisters have 
a home, sweet home” and so on through the 
family, the refrain of which was: “I want to 
join the angels in that home, sweet home.” 


18 


II 

GRANTS SCHOOLING 

J IMMY^S prophecy of fair weather was ful- 
filled, and between getting ready for the 
crop and making the garden it was a busy 
season for all. ’ ' 

Jimmy and Gran and the tenant, Bill Price, 
ploughed the steep hillsides and the narrow 
strip of bottom-land and the banks almost to 
the water ^s edge, where scrubby little water- 
birches had been set out to hold the earth in 
time of high water. 

‘‘The crop’’ in the mountains means corn, 
and to have one is an invariable and essential 
thing; the making of it is gone about quite in 
the spirit of a festival by whole families. 

When the brown earth is warm and soft under 
foot, after the winter freezes, and the air is 
mellow with warmth and light and blossom 
sweetness, the women and children come teem- 
ing from their dark little homes in the valleys, 
like children let loose from school, to make a 
play of work on the hillsides and by the water- 
courses. 

The trees of the forest, for the most part, 
are still bare of foliage, save where an elm-tree 
shows a greening top among them; and the 
smoke from the burning brushheaps in the 
19 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


clearings settles over their brown tops, a murky 
blue. The purple judas-trees bloom at the end 
of Lent with dogwood, and the white and red 
fringes of the sarvis berry and sugar maple 
make gay the fence-rows where the cardinals 
blithely call — Sugar sweet ‘‘Sugar sweet!’’ 

The grain is planted when the “oak-leaves 
are as big as squirrel paws” (and much re- 
semble them), and corn-hoeing begins when the 
young plants are a few inches high and show 
plainly in green rows across the fields. The 
hoeing is more than all a family affair, and it is 
no unusual sight to see from six to eight mem- 
bers of a family each taking a row around a 
steep hillside, with the fastest hand leading, 
while the baby lies on a quilt under some con- 
venient shade and the other small children play 
about. Small wonder that so much of the work 
is not well done, and the yield too often small. 

Making the crop is not all a spring festival, 
however. The whole must be gone over at least 
three times with the hoes, chopping out grass 
and weeds and hilling the earth up to the plants. 
It is delving hard work for women and children 
before the last plantings are “laid by” to grow 
without further cultivating in the intense heat 
of middle July. 

Orlena Ingold, like many of the better-off 
women, had not gone to the fields to work since 
middle life, except to plant beans and squashes 
to run over and among the corn, or occasion- 
ally for the pure love of it ; but she was accus- 
tomed to make her own garden, with little mas- 
culine assistance, after the ploughing. (It was 
20 


GRAN'S SCHOOLING 

a poor stick of a woman who did not.) She and 
Almetta planted onions and potatoes and beans 
of many varieties — bunch-beans, stick-beans, 
corn-field beans, soup-beans, hickory-sticks, and 
the great fat ^^fall beans,’’ in exact succession, 
with cabbage, beets, and mustard for salad. 

Gran showed a disposition to help the women 
between field work, declaring that if Almetta 
could work in the field he could work in the 
garden. 

One May morning when the first hoeing of the 
corn was over and the second not quite ready to 
begin, Jimmy Ingold remarked to Gran that he 
could make up the sweet potato hills ^Gf he 
wanted to,” an expression in general use for 
‘Gf you please.” 

Gran, whose full name was Granville, was a 
well-set-up young fellow of nineteen, not quite 
six feet in height, but rather above the average, 
strongly built and sure and quick in his move- 
ments. He was dark and good looking, with 
hair not quite black, and eyes which, though 
generally taken for black, were greenish gray 
and somber in repose, but with gifts of kindling 
in laughter or anger (the latter not often seen). 
He had a quiet self-respecting manner, with 
fine courtesy to all, and Orlena described him as 
being ‘^mighty civil turned” but ‘Gndependent 
ef pranked with. ’ ’ There had never been a bet- 
ter worker on the place, and Jimmy, easily 
guessing his independence, showed him a man’s 
consideration and received fine service in re- 
turn. He was just finishing his breakfast when 
Jim m y suggested the potato hills. 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


^‘All right, he answered, and as he rose and 
pushed his chair under the table he feaid to Al- 
metta, who was just sitting down to her break- 
fast, reckon you’ll help, won’t you, Almetty? 
You and me can make ’em up in a day.” 

‘‘Yes, I’m a good little hand to make tater- 
hills,” she said complacently. “You take 
along that little light goose-neck hoe for me, 
'Gran, and I’ll be down arter I do the things.” 

“Well, then,” said Orlena; “I’ll plant some 
beans in the corn right above the potato patch. ’ ’ 
The patch was to be in the lower end of the 
nearest corn-field, in a bend of the creek, where 
the ground was soft and sandy. 

Gran had made a dozen hills, carrying two 
rows along together, when Almetta arrived. 
She took one of the rows and worked along by 
his side for some time, keeping up by doing her 
work much less well. He made no comment on 
this, but occasionally reached across, drawing 
more dirt up to one of her hills, making it more 
shapely — ^his own were perfect little mountain- 
peaks of finely chopped earth. After a while 
she abruptly returned to the shade of the wil- 
lows and perched upon the fence. 

Gran carried the two rows along for a long 
time in silence, but when she seemed to be rest- 
ing over long and the work was carrying him 
quite away from her, he called out : ‘ ‘ Almetty, I 
want you to come f ’m under the shade uv them 
willers and he’p me make these tater-hills. ” 
“These willers ain’t castin’ no shade to hurt 
nothin’,” she responded ; “an you don’t need no 
help nohow. Gran.” But she slipped down 
22 


GRANTS SCHOOLING 


from the fence and came to his side, saying, 
‘‘You make the prettiest sweet tater-hills I ever 
seen/’ 

“Pretty don’t spell nothin’ ef they hain’t 
saft inside where the growin’s got to be done,” 
he said, as he drew the sandy earth deftly to 
the top of the hill and shaped it otf with an 
artistic flirt of the hoe. “An’ how you calcu- 
late taters is goin’ to grow in all them hard 
clods you’ve got kivered up in them hills of 
your ’n is more ’n I can see. I want you to make 
’em right ef ye goin’ to make ’em with me.” 

“’Tain’t what ye want hurts ye,” said Al- 
metta, “it’s what ye git; an’ I ain’t aimin’ to 
make no great amount uv tater-hills with ye no- 
how. Who did ye say lamed ye to make sich 
good uns?” 

“I never said,” replied Gran dryly. “But 
ef ye must know, the old man lamed me. ’ ’ 

“Who? Yerpap?” 

“Shore.” 

“Did he make good uns?” 

“I never seed him make none. He was a 
whole lot like Jimmy; he didn’t consider 
gard’nin’ man’s work.” 

“Well, then, how did he larn ye?” 

“Well, he just told me to make ’em right.” 

“Air ye goin’ to quit makin’ ’em when ye git 
as big as yer pap?” 

“I’m as big now as my pap was,” he said; 
“I’m as high as he wuz; course I ain’t as heavy; 
but I hain’t a-goin’ to quit makin’ tater-hills — 
at times when hit’s my place,” he added after a 
pause. “I been to school some and lamed a 
23 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


whole lot that pap never knowed, ef he wnz jist 
nacherly smart. The fashion in idys is 
changin^ some.’’ 

‘‘I hain’t noticed no great change ’round 
here,” said the girl. 

‘‘Naw, the fashions hain’t rech here yit. 
There’s Orleny now over there in the field 
plantin’ beans in the corn, an’ Jimmy settin’ at 
home in the shade whittlin’ a piece uv poplar, 
apt as not, or rid off somers tradin’, ^^en I 
marries, I’m goin’ ter help my woman with the 
gyarden an’ a heap o’ things.” 

‘‘Hit ain’t the style to marry tell ye gits a 
chanct, ’ ’ said Almetta. 

“Well, I dunno ’bout that; I’ve seed some 
ready married that hadn’t never had no good 
chanct; and some willin’ that ain’t yet had no 
good chanct.” 

Almetta laughed good-naturedly, picked up 
her hoe and made two hills without speaking, 
breaking the clods carefully and frankly imi- 
tating the work of the boy. 

“Now,” he said, “ Almetty, you an’ that little 
goose-neck hoe ain’t ekal to full work. You 
jest skip every other space; I’ll make three to 
your one and you make hit good and saft and 
full size, and then the taters’ll grow a sight 
better.” 

The arrangement proved satisfactory. 

“Did yer daddy ever give yer a whoopin’, 
Gran?” the girl asked in a pause of the work. 

“Naw, he never give me nothin’ ye’d call a 
whoopin’; but he give me a pyore skinnin’ 
onct.” 


24 


GRANTS SCHOOLING 


‘‘What did he skin ye fer?’^ 

“Well, hit mont er bin fer my hide f’m the 
amount he tuck off ^n my hack.’^ 

“Well,’^ said the girl, “you must er bin up to 
some turrible meanness; I allow you sassed 
him.’’ 

“Naw, I nuver sassed him nuther. I never 
knowed what he whooped me fur ; but I drawed , 
an idy,” he said wisely. The girl scented a 
story, and pausing with uplifted hoe she asked 
interestedly, “What idy did ye draw?” 

Seeing that her good-natured banter had 
given place to sympathetic interest. Gran began 
the story with a reminiscent air as if the inci- 
dent had occurred a man’s lifetime in the past. 
They both unconsciously stopped hoeing, and 
Orlena, who was just out of earshot, but in plain 
sight, smiled to herself and wondered what they 
were talking about as she saw them standing so 
long between the potato hills, leaning on their 
hoes. 

“Well,” he said, “I wuz just a little chunk of 
a boy, an’ we wuz livin’ up on Bear Cave, where 
we allers lived. We had a world uv fine land 
layin’ up between the main head dreens uv the 
branch. Some uv the coves wuz as rich as they 
ever wuz, but others wuz considerable wore out 
with corn, and most uv the dreens was perfect 
dry in summer; but they wuz one holler that 
trickled a right smart all the time. They wuz 
deep crevices in hit, an’ some uv’m had been 
said to be bottomless, but they wan’t in reason, 
though animals had got lost in that holler an’ 
bin mighty hard to find. Hit wuz right on the 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


edge uv our boundary an^ a moughty hard place 
to keep the fence up in. In fact, it were 
moughty nigh onpossible to keep hit up in the 
main head uv the holler, an’ old man Sizemore’s 
property wuz allers breakin’ in on us, and pap 
an’ him had come in a pea uv havin’ a fray over 
hit a time or two. They had been a world uv 
fine timber left in hit, oaks and chestnuts an’ 
beech, an’ ole man Sizemore’s hogs, that wuz 
turned out on the mast, wuz allers a-rootin’ 
through. 

Well, that spring, the old man took a notion 
to plant in a patch uv new ground — right over 
ag’in’ that holler. He took two uv the big boys 
an’ went an’ fixed that line uv fence to his satis- 
faction, an’ put three or four uv us young ’ns 
to burnin’ brash-heaps an’ grubbin’ the field. 
Well, we got the field cleared an’ planted atter 
so long a time, an’ one mornin’ just as the 
corn wuz sproutin’ good, pap went up to the 
field, and there wuz two uv Sizemore’s shoats 
rootin’ up the young corn. Well, he found the 
hole where one uv the boys had nailed a slat to 
a pawpaw saplin’, an’ the wood bein’ saft, the 
shoats had pushed the slats off an’ come 
through. Well, he driv ’em out an’ fixed up the 
fence good and strong. Next mornin’ he 
stepped out ag’in, an’ he found the very same 
two spotted shoats rootin’ up the corn. He 
was moughty mad, but he never said nothin’. 

‘^Well, gentlemen, jest pime blank five 
mornin ’s hand runnin’ he found the same two 
hogs in the field an’ a new hole ever’ time. 
They wuz cute uns ! 


26 


GRANTS SCHOOLING 


‘‘The fift mornin’ he nuver driv ’em out nor 
let on to nobody. He jest stepped back into the 
house and tuck down the gun and handed her to 
me an’ says, ‘Son, go run them hogs up the 
holler. ’ That wuz ever ’ word he said. 

“Well, I wa’n’t nothin’ but a little chap, an’ I 
jest run the hogs a little way up the holler, be- 
hind the ivy bushes where the fyerns wuz high 
an’ thick, an’ shot ’em, an’ come back to the 
house an’ put the gun over the fireboard where 
she belonged. Mam an’ the least ones wuz 
battlin’ dost at the wash place an’ pap had got 
on the mare an’ rid off, so I wuz the only one 
that pintedly knowed who killed the hogs ; an’ I 
never let on. 

“Well, hit want many mornin’s before we 
could see old man Sizemore ramikin’ around in 
that holler, apparently lookin’ fer something. 
Me an’ my little sister wuz mindin’ ground- 
squirrels out uv the corn an’ we seed him goin’ 
up. He stayed a long time in the main head on’ 
arter while he came on back down, close by our 
fence. I wuz moughty busy throwin’ clods at 
the ground-squirrels, but I could see him, an’ 
the nigher he come to them ivies, the weaker I 
felt an’ the stronger I throwed. He come right 
on down by ’em and stopped what you might 
call a minute, or not so long, but I knowed in 
reason th’ old fox had seed the shoats. He 
come on down furder an’ leant acrost the fence 
an’ axed me wuz the ground-squirrels pretty 
bad, an’ I ’lowed they wuz. Then he ’lowed the 
corn wuz coming up moughty pretty, an’ I 
’lowed hit shore wuz. 

37 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘^Atter a while lie said he^s been looking for 
a couple uv sboats that hadn’t come up fer a few 
days, but he reckoned they wuz in the calumus 
holler on t’other side. I said ‘they mought be’ 
an’ went on, but I knowed in reason he never 
thought them shoats wuz in the Calumus Holler. 

“Shore ’nough, next day Jake Singleton, the 
depity, wuz there with a warrant uv arrest fer 
pap. The old man never denied a thing, jest 
went on to town an’ give bond to ’pear at the 
next term uv court, an’ come home. In a day 
or two Jake wuz back and subpoenaed all the 
family as witnesses, but mam and us three least 
uns, an’ then everybody lit into hoein’ corn an’ 
waitin’ fur court. Pap never had been con- 
victed uv nothin’. He tole mam an’ the 
young ’ns that the less folks said about what 
they knowed nothin’ uv, the better. 

“Well, one way an’ another the case was put 
otf till fall, an’ two or three days before the 
trial Pap ast me ef I didn’t want to go over on 
Eoarin’ Fork to my granny’s an’ go to school. 
Course I wuz keen to go, an’ mam wuz willin’, 
hit bein’ her mammy’s. 

“Well, pap started me out next mornin’ an’ I 
stayed all fall an’ lamed a sight. Hit wore a 
sight to hear the teacher talk an’ tell the 
young ’ns how to act. She didn’t ’low ’em to 
handle no kind uv bad talk, ner fight, an’ she 
teached ’em a heap uv manners. She made the 
boys stand back fer the gals, an’ two er three 
uv the big boys stopped on account uv hit. 

“I never seed nobody frum home that whole 
fall. But I could hear tell that the old man 
28 


GRANS SCHOOLING 


had come cPar at the trial, an’ that folks wuz 
sayin’ that they would shore ’a’ convicted him 
ef I had ’a’ be’n there to ’a’ swore. 

‘‘One uv my uncles that lived with granny 
went over to pap’s ’twixt that an’ Christmus, 
an’ when he come back he said that pap swore 
that he never shot the hogs, that he never told 
nobody to shoot ’em, an’ that he didn’t ’low he 
wuz on the place when they wuz shot, ner he 
wan’t. They axed him who he ’lowed did shoot 
’em, an’ he told ’em ’lowin’ wa’n’t ’lowin’, but 
that Sizemore mought er shot ’em hisself to get 
his neighbor in trouble. Sizemore wuz a 
moughty mean man, an’ he had been accused of 
that very trick onct. The young ’ns all swore 
that they nuver knowed nothin’ about hit tell 
Jake Singleton come with the warrant, ner they 
didn ’t. 

“Hit were just about hog killing time when 
Uncle Jim come back frum over home, an’ one 
frosty Saterday mornin’ he says to me an’ 
granny, ‘Children,’ sez he, ‘that fattenin’ hog in 
the pen is shore eatin’ hits head off an’ I’m wil- 
lin’ to kill hit ef you’uns air.’ So granny had 
me start a fire under the pot, an’ we got ready 
to kill the hog. Uncle Jim handed me the gun, 
an’ says, ‘Here, Gran, you shoot the hog while 
I grind the butcher knife ; I ’m a master hand to 
grind a butcher knife,’ sez he. 

“I tuck the gun an’ shot the hog. I shot him 
a pretty shoot right behind the year, an’ he fell 
over an’ never kicked nor squealed. Well, we 
got hit cleaned an’ cut up an’ salted away, an’ 
while I wuz blowin’ up the bladder to bust I 
29 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS BUN 


liyeard Uncle Jim say to granny^ bin won- 
derin’ a right smart while what made his 
pap send as smart a boy as that away fer 
six months, but ’tain’t no secret to me now 
sence I seed him; shoot that hog.’ Uncle Jim 
laughed, but granny looked moughty solid an’ 
sad. 

‘‘I went home when the school wuz out, an’ 
that fust night mam wanted to know all about 
granny an’ Soarin’ Fork an’ the young ’ns 
wanted to know all about the school an’ so on. 

‘‘Finally pap spoke. ‘Well, son,’ he sez, ‘do 
ye ’low ye have lamed a right smart!’ I 
’lowed I shore thought I had. 

“ ‘Well,’ he sez, ‘do you ’low yer eddication 
is finished! ’ I spoke right up an’ told him that 
Miss Sally said I had just begun an’ that they 
wuz a heap yet fer me to learn. 

“ ‘Well,’ he sez, ‘Miss Sally, as you call 
her, is shore right, an’ I ’low maybe I can larn 
ye somethin’ myself,’ he sez. He spoke very 
civil an’ I never thought o’ nothin’, an’ pretty 
soon we all laid down. 

“The next morning atter breakfast th’ old 
man called me out, an’ me an’ him walked over 
to that ivy thicket, him a-leadin’ the way. The 
frost had killed the fyerns, an’ there wuz the 
bones uv them two shoats right in plain sight 
to ever ’body, right again Sizemore’s fence on 
our side. Pap never said a word, but he cut a 
hickory Caplin’ an’ he come closest to me with 
hit that anybody ever did, before er sence — er 
ever will an’ be safet.” 

Gran suddenly resumed work, as if action 
30 


GRAN’S SCHOOLING 

were a necessity, and made a potato hill with 
quick strong strokes. 

^‘Well,’^ exclaimed Almetta, who had scarcely 
moved from the beginning of the story, ‘‘ef that 
wnzn’t the masterest pass!’’ 

‘‘Well, he shore graduated me from his 
school that mornin ’, ’ ’ continued Gran ; “ an ’ hit 
alters seemed easy to stay away from home 
arterwards. When I got back to the house 
mam watched a chanct an’ says to me, ‘Son, 
who killed them hogs?’ an’ I says, ‘Now, mam, 
you got nothin’ to do with them hogs, an’ the 
man that shot ’em has paid fur it. ’ She nuver 
said another word. She just looked solid and 
sad, an’ I never had noticed till that minute 
how much mam had the favorence of granny. 
I alters felt moughty nigh to mam.” 

“But I want to know what yer pap whooped 
yer fur? He as good as told yer to shoot ’em,” 
expostulated the girl. 

“Well, I never rightly knowed what he 
whooped me fer,” drawled Gran ; “but I drawed 
an idy hit wuz because I never driv them hogs 
furder up the holler. An’ hit were un- 
thoughted. ’ ’ 


31 


Ill 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STOBY 

A LMETTA angel, since her father ^s 
death, had lived about and about’’ from 
one place to another, on the headwaters of 
‘‘Gabriel’s Run,” and “Creely Creek,” and 
even over on “Little Bear,” all of which had 
their origin in “dreens” from “Indian Head” 
hill; and she knew and loved the people well, 
but the river and the river people were new to 
her and of great interest. 

By June she had become quite well acquainted 
with the neighborhood, from Jimmy’s place, at 
the mouth of Gabriel, to Joe Bentley’s, a mile 
and a half above, where they traded, and to 
Pepper Ike Ingold’s, a mile below, where the 
postoffice was generally kept during Republican 
administrations. 

Jimmy’s renters, the Prices, were the nearest 
neighbors living in sight, and had come in for 
the first share of interest after her arrival. 

It was a rather tatterdemalion family, of five 
generations, with “Yaller Bill” Price at the 
head. Bill’s nickname had come naturally, in- 
deed almost unavoidably, on account of a very 
sallow complexion, showing even in the whites 
of his black eyes. This, with a tall, stooping, 
lean figure, gave him a very delicate appear- 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


ance, belying the perfect health and iron mus- 
cle that were his, even as a gloomy countenance 
belied his cheerful disposition. 

He did not mind being called ‘‘Yaller,’’ the 
name being neither ugly nor approbrious to 
him. He said simply enough that he ‘‘shore 
could not deny bein' yaller," and so he was thus 
generally called by everybody but his wife, his 
mother, and Orlena Ingold. The first two 
called him Bill out of respect to him, Orlena out 
of respect to herself. 

The senior member of his family was his 
mother's mother, a granddaughter of Nathan 
Angel. She was usually addressed as “great- 
gran." Bill received $35 a year from the 
county in quarterly payments for her keep, and 
this would have been enough to have made Or- 
lena Ingold, who was born an Angel herself, 
ignore the relationship, had it been the custom 
in the section to use the term cousin, which it 
certainly was not. 

Great-Gran and Bill's wife, Sarah, a small, 
frail woman, scarcely middle-aged, sat about 
the hearth the greater part of the year, smoking 
dry leaf-tobacco in long-stemmed stone pipes; 
the pipes, when not in use, were carried in the 
deep pockets of their calico dresses, with the 
loose tobacco. They carried colored handker- 
chiefs in the deep patch pockets of their volum- 
inous aprons. They were no blood kin, but the 
age of one and the ill health of the other, with 
the same habits of mind and body, had made 
them as much alike as two dried peas. They 
never allowed the fire to go out upon the hearth. 

33 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


On the hottest day a shovel full of embers could 
be found in the ashes. 

BilPs grown daughter, Teacy, a good-na- 
tured, swarthy, homely woman, was much older 
than his other two children, Loretta and 
Chunky. They were respectively twelve and 
thirteen years old, and it was their coming 
which had permanently invalided the mother. 

Teacy was not Sarah Pricers daughter, but 
that of a woman,’’ and had been ‘^laid down” 
to Bill when he was just grown. His mother 
had reared her and she had come to live with 
her father as a young girl, when Sarah ’s health 
failed. Teacy was a hard worker on occasions 
though usually easy-going, and she and her pap 
ran the place. 

When she brought a son into the family in 
her eighteenth year, being still unmarried, and 
so far as anybody knew not even ‘Halking” to 
a sweetheart, it caused no great disturbance in 
^Waller Bill’s” family, and little Joe was loved 
and petted by them all, and great-gran taught 
him to smoke her pipe when he was five years 
old. 

Bill’s mother, known as Granny Pop — her 
name being Polly — had come to live with them 
only recently, after the disappearance of her 
youngest son with whom she had lived. She 
brought with her the only child of this son, lit- 
tle lame Heppy, who had visions, and ^‘handled 
quare talk” when excited, prating of Heaven 
and Hell, and the ^‘two roads” leading thereto. 

Granny Pop was hale and hearty and could 
turn her hand to any kind of work, and when 
34 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


she and Teacy were both in the field or else- 
where, Heppy could get about on her crutch and 
beat Loretta frying corn-cakes and fat meat, 
and so they found their own places and were 
welcome in the heterogeneous family, which, 
with all its five generations, was not as large as 
many a one with neither grannies nor grand- 
children. 

The Joe Bentleys, who kept the store, were 
rather a young family, the two oldest children 
being girls, ten and twelve, named Jettie and 
Eettie ; and Almetta liked them very much. 

Their father’s store at the mouth of Creely 
was familiarly known as Joe’s,” and was the 
only one for miles around. It was, like all in 
that region, a general store, a modest prototype 
of the modern department store, with dry 
goods, groceries, patent medicines, millinery, 
etc., in the main room, which was about twenty 
by forty feet in size. A box of salt fat bacon 
and one barrel of brown sugar and another of 
coal-oil, with some of the simpler forms of hard- 
ware and harness, were kept in the shed room at 
one side, and here also were the hides, wool and 
roots taken in trade. Any line of goods, sup- 
posed to be kept, might be out of stock at any ^ 
time, and remain out for weeks and even months. 

The bringing in of a wagon-load of goods 
from the far-off station, or better still, a boat- 
load up the winding river, were marked events. 

It was a great excursion for Almetta to take a 
sack or a pair of saddle pockets on Jimmy’s 
horse and go to Joe’s” for salt, sugar, coffee, 
soda, or calico for a dress or apron and a visit 
35 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


with Jettie and Eettie. Occasionally, too, she 
went to the postoffice at Pepper Ike^s and 
brought Orlena a letter from one of the chil- 
dren, perhaps the son in the Philippines, or one 
of the daughters in the West; or it might be a 
package of seeds from Washington for Jimmy. 
Gran got letters occasionally, but she herself 
had never received one. 

She enjoyed the transient boarders who 
stopped occasionally, especially the drummers 
and outside folk, who called Jimmy and Orlena 
‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Ingold.’’ She thought this very 
fine and sometimes tried it herself, and made 
Gran blush at the table by saying demurely, 
“Mr. Duke, let me give you another cup of 
coffee.” 

While she was making so many new and in- 
teresting acquaintances she was unconsciously 
revealing herself, especially to Orlena, who had 
a mhture woman ’s appreciation of a “ straight ’ ’ 
girl, and to Gran, who had a young man’s ap- 
preciation of one who was not only pretty but 
independent. 

June came in with a little tip-tilted “wet” 
new moon, and was hot and showery. Orlena ’s 
garden grew apace and was ready for use and 
the great rosebushes were clumps of pink and 
red. 

Almetta came in one morning with an apron 
full of peas, a rose pinned on her bosom, and 
the exclamation, “It is going to be another 
sweltersome day.” 

“Yes, hit’s good growing weather on a 
body’s truck too,” said Orlena. “These hot 
36 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


mornin’s with the rain cornin’ ever’ arternoon 
is hr ingin’ the stuff moughty fast.” 

^‘But hit’s bringin’ the weeds too,” said Al- 
metta; ‘‘an’ I ’low I’ll have to help to hoe com 
in the cove to-morrow.” 

“Yes, Jimmy ’lowed him and the boys could 
finish the second hoein’ in the bottom an’ on the 
banks by noon to-day, but the blackberry cove 
is so steep hit can’t be ploughed, and hit ’ill 
take pyore hoein’. We must finish skelpin’ the 
weeds out o’ them bean rows to-day. Fetch a 
pan out’n the kitchen, honey,” she advised; 
“an’ I’ll he’p ye shell yer peas.” 

Almetta brought a pan from the kitchen and 
set it in the older woman’s lap, so she herself 
would make the long reach, and divided the 
peas with her, piling handfuls in her lap be- 
hind the pan. 

Pulling up a chair for herself, they began 
shelling peas into the pan and dropping the 
hulls b^ack into their aprons. They worked 
rapidly and in silence for a few minutes. 

It was a quiet, peaceful scene. Orlena’s 
home consisted of two log rooms known as the 
“upper house” and the “lower house” (as they 
stood with the river) with a wide stone chimney 
between. 

Each “house” had a good “loft” overhead, 
and the outside chimney corners, which had re- 
sulted from the ‘ ‘ houses ’ ’ having been built with 
the chimney between, and not inside of either, 
were called wardrobes, and were used as storage 
places for saddles, tools, or anything needing 
protection from the weather. 

37 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEVS RUN 


Jimmy and Orlena Ingold liad got the house 
and a good farm, partly by inheritance and 
partly by trading with the other heirs ; and had 
in recent years remodeled it to the extent of 
having a grate for the use of the abundant coal 
put in the fireplace of the upper house, one 
small window let into the front wall of each 
house, and a boxed ell for kitchen and dining- 
room built on at the back. 

The front porch, running the length of the 
building, and shaded by the fast-growing paper 
trees, not only afforded a delightful resting- 
place, but was the scene of a variety of woman’s 
work. 

A number of old apple-trees in the yard, while 
they had never been trimmed or sprayed, still 
bore ‘‘several” apples in good fruit years: and 
like Orlena herself, showed that the original 
stock must have been very good and quite 
hardy. 

There were althea bushes and mallows, both 
of which Orlena called “lilies,” for later bloom- 
ing, and great bushes of red and pink June 
roses already brightening the scene and filling 
the air with their fragrance. Besides these 
Orlena had planted beds of annual “blossoms,” 
putting brushwood over to keep out marauding 
chickens, and which would be very gay in the 
summer and fall. Young corn and potato 
patches flanked the yard on both sides, and the 
barnyard with its sheds and cribs stretched at 
the back. 

The place was known far and wide for its 
gentility, and for the fact that they “allers 
38 


THE STRAIGHT^OF THE STORY 

kept a plenty/’ There were, even that far up 
the river, some more ambitious looking places, 
a few even with painted weatherboards, but 
none pleasanter; and the ‘‘river men” coming 
with their boatloads of goods, or going down on 
the timber, always^ counted themselves lucky 
when they could ‘‘tie up” for the night in this' 
vicinity and “get to stay” at Jimmy’s. 

Many a lazy boatman, observing the lengthen- 
ing shadows of the late afternoon, had stepped 
up lively with the push-pole to make it before 
night, or lagged back for fear of passing too 
early. 

It was no wonder that Almetta, who had seen 
much of the seamy side of life on the heads of 
the creeks, appreciated her present refuge in 
this superior river home and confided to Gran 
that “hit were a mighty easy place to be satis- 
fied in. ’ ’ 

Orlena, whose own children were married 
and gone, never had any trouble with help ; she 
had a way with her that invited confidence, and 
was fair in her ways. 

Girls who admitted that they ‘ ‘ did not delight 
in the work at home,” gave her faithful service. 
She had wonderful striped blankets put away 
in the boxes on the wall that she would never 
need in her own house-keeping, that their will- 
ing hands had helped spin and weave, and Lady 
Puzzle quilts, and quilts with Learning Stars, 
and Rainbow Roses, and the lovely Rose of 
Sharon. 

The pleasant shelter of her home, with her 
“good counsel,” had brought more than one 
39 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS BUN 


girl through a dangerous time. Folded away 
in some of the quilts on Orlena^s shelves were 
faint yellow stains of teardrops that had come 
with confession and good resolution as woman 
and girl bent over the work together. Orlena ’s 
girls always left with good names, whatever 
they might have come with, and usually married 
out of the place. 

Almetta, who was both a good listener and a 
good talker, and was willing to be either, when 
things were cosy, soon broke the silence by re- 
marking, ‘‘Peas is very good sass, Orlena, I 
never seen none like these till I come here, 
though Granny Ann’s got a very good gyar- 
den.” 

“Has she?” 

“Yes, she alters has a world o’ beans an’ 
taters, an’ they air the main sass.” 

“Yes, they air the main sass,” agreed Or- 
lena. 

“You an’ Granny Ann is very dost akin, 
ain’t ye, Orlena?” 

“Yes, me an’ Ann air own brother’s chil- 
dren, but I ain’t seen her in alters.” 

“I loved Granny Ann, an’ I’d ’a’ liked to a 
stayed on with her,” said the girl; “but when 
Alif air’s man got killed an’ she come on’m with 
her young ’ns, they didn’t ’pear to be no bene- 
fit in havin’ so many, though Granny told me 
I could stay if I didn’t mind scrougin’; but I 
’lowed it would be fairer to make room for Ali- 
f air’s young ’ns.” 

“I’m very glad you come here,” said the 
woman. 


40 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


‘‘Well, I hadn’t ’lowed to come this far when 
I started from Granny’s. Uncle Gahe Angel 
was the cause of my cornin’ here. I had got as 
fur as Peter’s and was a settin’ on his bars 
with my budget, wonderin’ whether to go in and 
ax Polly to let me stay there or to go on to Big 
Ike’s, when he come along and counseled me to 
come here. Uncle Gahe has shore been a stake 
to me.” She paused and added, “He made 
Betty take me when mam died; she hadn’t lot- 
ted on doin’ hit nuther.” 

The turn of the conversation reminded Or- 
lena of a story she had heard about the girl and 
had wondered about before, so she asked, “Al- 
metty, how did you come to be livin’ with 
Ann?” 

“Why, I jest went there one day and took 
up,” said the girl simply. 

“I hyeard ye got ill an’ thro wed dishwater 
on your sister Betty one day, an’ she throwed 
ye out. Hit wa’n’t so, I reckon.” 

“Naw, hit wa’n’t so,” said Almetta hotly. 
“I never throwed no dishwater on her, and she 
never throwed me out nuther. ’ ’ 

“Wall, now,” said Orlena deprecatingly and 
soothingly, “somebody’s allers a-makin’ a 
great big somethin’ out’n a moughty little.” 

She shrewdly guessed that while a “great 
matter was kindled by a very little fire,” it 
usually took some spark to kindle it, and she 
was willing to hear the girl’s own version of 
what happened. 

“You did live with Betty a while arter yer 
maw died, didn’t you?” The woman’s smooth, 
41 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


sympathetic tone conquered the girl’s hot flash 
of anger and she followed the lead willingly. 

^^Yes,” she said; Betty was the main oldest 
one of us young ’ns. She married when she 
was jest turned in to fifteen, and when mam 
died she had two children an’ was livin’ on the 
head of Gabriel doin’ very well. The rest of 
the young ’ns was married er dead er workin’ 
fur theirselves, before pap died, ’ceptin’ me 
an’ Sid. Sid was the baby one, an’ I was next, 
an’ mammy wouldn’t give us up. Me an’ her 
an’ him had lived around at a heap o’ places: 
some uv’m wuzn’t much more’n jist what you 
might call a shelter, but we’d allers hung to- 
gether, me an’ him an’ her, and allers had some 
place to stay. 

‘^Orleny,” said the child earnestly, ‘‘I never 
have lacked for a shelter. Mam allers told us 
that they was a heap o ’ trouble, but ef we ’d be 
honest an’ peaceable, they’d allers be a comin’- 
out place: and they allers has.” 

‘‘Wuz yer maw much able to work when yer 
pap died?” inquired Orlena. 

‘‘Well, I reckon she wuz. She shore wuzn’t 
able to git along without workin’. Pap wuz sick 
a long time an’ had to have doctor medicine, 
an’ ever ’thing had been sold otf an’ we wuz 
rentin ’.” 

“That wuz a moughty bad shape to be left 
in,” said Orlena sympathetically. “How did 
ydu all make out to git along?” 

“Well, mam wuz very managin’. Some- 
times she’d rent a little place in the head uv a 
holler some’ers where they wuz new ground to 
42 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


tend an’ no ploughin’ needed, an’ we’d dig in 
a little crap with the hoes and tend hit, an’ 
sometimes she’d find a place where they wuz 
wantin’ a lot of wool worked up, an’ we’d 
spend the winter, and mam would pick an ’ wash 
and cyafd an’ spin an’ weave, er she’d quilt er 
wash er cook an’ wait on hands. She could 
turn her hand to any kind of work, mam could, 
indoors er out. She never ast it no odds. I 
believe in my heart mam was the smartest 
turned woman I ever seen. ’ ’ 

‘‘Whar were ye all a-livin’ when she died?” 

‘^Well, we wuz a-livin’ in a little house away 
in the head of a holler on Tice Bolin’s land. 
She had just finished a web uv blankets fur 
Tice’s Tilly, an’ we’d moved into a little shack 
uv a house on his land, an’ wuz fixin’ to tend a 
crop, when she took sick and died. Hit wuz 
new ground and we’d been cleanin’ up and 
burnin’ breshheaps, an’ Tice’s boy Tom had 
helped mam saw the rail-cuts to fence hit. 
They had the rails all split an’ we had the fence 
nearly done. One Sat’d’y evenin’ mam an’ us 
young ’ns wuz workin’ at hit, tryin’ to finish 
hit, so mam could go to plantin’ a Monday. We 
wuz jist gittin’ through at dusky dark, and 
mam started to lay up the last rail on top uv 
the panel, when she was tuck with a ketch in her 
side. She kinder moaned a little bit an’ eased 
the rail down to the ground, and then she set 
right down by hit, all kinder drawed an’ 
bunched together like, and both hands clinched 
over her side. For a little while Sid and I were 
not worried. She had been tuck that er way 
43 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL S RUN 


a time er two before, an’ once she had to lay in 
bed a long time with hit. 

^ ‘ This time they wuzn ’t the color nv blood in 
her face, an’ she wuz speechless, ’cept fur a 
little low kind uv a shaky moanin’. Arter a 
while she got a leetle better an’ I says to Sid, 
‘Come on, brother, le’s lay this last rail up an’ 
he’p mammy to the house.’ Hit wuzn’t but a 
step. Mam hadn’t spoke tell that minute, but 
when I took aholt uv the rail, she sez, ‘Never 
mind, honey, jest let hit lay. ’ 

“Hit weren’t fur to the house, an’ me and 
Sid holp her in. Hit wuz hard dark by that 
time, an’ the whipperwills wuz a-hollerin’ the 
lonesomest I ever hyeard ’em. She got wuss 
ag’in, an’ I made Sid go fer Tice’s Tilly. 
Mam went to chillin’, an’ I built up a big bresh- 
wood fire an’ put ever’ thread uv ever ’thing in 
the house over her, but I couldn’t warm her up 
no way I tried, an’ hit peered like Sid an’ Tilly 
never would come. 

“Arter a while she stopped shakin’ an’ got 
hot, an’ me an’ her talked some. She had a 
fashion uv talkin’ yearnest to us young ’ns 
when she had us to herself. She said she 
wuzn’t af eared to die: that she never had done 
nobody no harm an’ she knowed, in reason, the 
Good Old Man wuz a friend to her. I tried to 
tell her to hush, that she wuzn’t a-goin’ to die, 
but to save my life I couldn’t, an’ arter a while 
Tilly and Sid come. Tilly made coonroot an’ 
spignet tea, an’ rubbed and worked with her, 
but hit ’peared like nothin’ never eased her, an’ 
about midnight she got franzy an’ talked an’ 
44 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 

tossed an’ tumbled, jest ramblin’, you know, 
about a quare lot uv things. She talked about 
her mammy and the ^Lone Star’ quilt she’d 
made when she wuz a little gal; an’ about her 
pappy, an’ her little sister that died, an’ a heap 
uv things. Just before day she’d been layin’ 
still for a while, apparently asleep, an’ all uv a 
suddent she called out, ^ Pappy, pappy, bring 
the boat to this side. ’ — She were raised on the 
river, you know — an’ her eyes popped wide open 
an’ she says, ‘Where’s Sid? Where’s Al- 
metty?’ I wuz right there, but Sid had fell 
right down in the floor an’ went to sleep. Tilly 
drug him up an’ brung him to mammy, an’ she 
says, ‘Hug me tight, ’round the neck. Sugar. 
I’m jest goin’ acrost the river a little ways, but 
I may be gone a right smart while. ’ ’ ’ 

There were no tears either in the eyes or in 
the voice of the girl, but a deep sense of mysti- 
cism, which was shared by the older woman, 
and both sat silent what time a spirit might 
vacate its earthly home and start upon its long 
journey. 

“Hit were a Sunday,” resumed Almetta. 
“Hit ’pears like I wuz sort o’ dull an’ don’t 
pime blank remember all that went on that day, 
but mam had a heap o’ friends an’ there wuz a 
good deal uv cornin’ an’ goin’, makin’ the coffin 
an’ the clo’es an’ gettin’ her ready. They all 
’lowed pap wuz buried so fur away that they’d 
never git her there, so they buried her out on 
the p’int, a little ways from the house next to a 
thicket of young sugar trees. Hit were the 
gray uv the mornin’ when she died : an’ the sun- 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


ball bad jest drapped behind the hill when they 
finished fillin’ the grave, but hit wuz broad day- 
light. 

‘‘Part uv the children had come to the 
buryin’, an’ Betty amongst ’em; but nothin’ had 
been said about what wuz to become uv me an’ 
Sid. 

“Betty tuck on a sight when she looked at 
mam the last time at the grave, before they 
nailed the coffin down tight, but she wuz very 
peart by the time the grave was filled. Me and 
Sid was jest a-standin’ there a-snubbin’. 
Betty got on her horse an’ tuck her baby in her 
lap, an’ about that time Uncle Gabe Angel jest 
reached down an’ picked me up an’ set me on 
behind her an’ says, ‘She’ll be a heap o’ help 
an’ company to ye, Betty,’ an’ then he turned 
’round an’ tuck Sid by the hand an’ says, 
‘Brother, you an’ me had better be travelin’. 
Hit’ll be dark now before we git home, an’ yer 
aunt Lize’ll be worryin’ ’bout us’n.’ I’ll allers 
feel nigh to Uncle Gabe. Well, we all went off 
the p’int together, an’ Sid an’ Uncle Gabe went 
down the creek an’ me an’ Betty crossed the 
hill. 

“I went back to mam’s grave that fall wuz a 
year, an’ the farewell summers wuz a bloomin’ 
all over hit an’ the sugar trees wuz red as blood. 
I tuck enough rails off ’n that fence she’d built 
to make a pen ’round her grave, without axin’ a 
soul fer ’em. I found that last rail she’d had 
to lay down layin’ right where she’d left hit. I 
sorter hated to move hit, but I laid hit right 
acrost the top.” 


46 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


‘^Did you an’ Betty mostly git along very 
well?” asked Orlena, resuming the shelling of 
the peas, which both had forgotten. 

^‘Oh, yes,” said Almetta, herself resuming 
work. ‘^She wuz very good to me while I 
stayed, though she wuz very lean about takin’ 
me in. I took a whole lot of care uv the 
young ’ns an’ helped about the place. Hit 
were a very pretty place too, just above 
Granny Ann’s. 

used to love to go down to Granny Ann’s. 
She’d give me sweet apples, an’ I’d pack water 
fer her f ’m the spring. She never was mad at 
me but onct. Betty sent me down there one day 
to borry Granny’s needle. I never will fergit 
the looks uv that needle, with a long double 
black thread in it an’ hit crooked. Granny Ann 
had had hit fer allers, an’ she called hit ‘Old 
Crook.’ Well, as I wuz cornin’ home the back 
way through the field, I got ter lookin’ fer 
ground cherries an’ lost hit. I never missed 
hit from where I’d stuck hit in my bosom, tell 
I’s nearly home. Well, I went back and 
sarched and sarched, but I couldn’t find that 
needle nowheres. I wuz afeared to tell Betty 
I’d lost hit, so I jest hollered and told her she 
couldn’t have Granny’s needle that day. Uv 
course she ’lowed Granny wuz usin’ hit. 

“Two er three days arter that though me an’ 
Betty passed Granny Ann’s cow huntin’, an’ 
Granny come out on us and says, ‘Betty, air ye 
through with Old Crook?’ Betty says, ‘Why, I 
hain’t had Old Crook sence last winter,’ an’ 
Granny says, ‘Hit’s a pity ye hain’t, when I sent 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


her to ye a Monday, ’ an ^ then both nv ’em took 
a thought an’ looked at me. Granny Ann says, 
‘Almetty, where’s that needle I lent ye a Mon- 
day, when ye come down here ’lowin’ Betty wuz 
a-wantin’ a long crooked needle to quilt withf’ 
I backed off an’ says, ‘Ye never lont me no 
needle.’ I knowed I wa’n’t ’ceivin’ nobody. 
Granny made a retch at me with a clo’es-stick 
she had in her han’, an’ I jest civilly flew. 
Betty ’lowed I orter be whooped, but hit wa’n’t 
her needle and she never tipped me. 

“I went up to Tish Angel’s that week an’ 
begged her out uv one an’ sent hit to Granny, 
but I don ’t think she ever thought very high uv 
hit. She complained uv hit bein’ too straight. 

“Not long arter that, though, I found Gran- 
ny’s fine heifer calf with hits head hung in the 
palin’, an’ I jerked a slat off an’ saved hit, an’ 
Granny ’lowed I wuz pow’ful smart, an’ that 
wuz the only racket me an’ her ever had.” 

“Wuz hit then that you went to live with 
Ann!” asked Orlena, coming back patiently to 
the thread of the dishwater story, from which 
so many excursions had been made. 

“No, hit were long arter that. Hit were jest 
before Betty’s little Armilda come there. Betty 
had been contrary an’ unreasonin’ with me fer 
a long time, an’ one day Bob had promised to 
break up a late turnip patch fer her, an’ ’stid o’ 
doin’ hit, he’d rid off some’ers down the creek. 
Hit made her moughty ill, an’ she had been 
takin’ hit out on me all mornin’. 

“Arter dinner me an’ her wuz washin’ the 
dishes; the pan wuz settin’ on a little narrer 
48 


THE STRAIGHT OF THE STORY 


slab-table; one nv hits legs wnz a little grain 
shorter than toother, makin^ hit sorter rockeldy. 
Well, Betty kept yaggerin^ about one thing an’ 
another, till I finally (trapped the pot-lid in the 
dishpan an’ hit sorter splashed a little, an’ she 
broke out on me ag’in. 

wuzn’t mad till then, but hit flew all over 
me in a minute. The dishpan wuz very full 
anyway, an’ I jes’ teched one uv the table-legs 
the least with my foot, an’ the table jest creeled 
over the least grain on that short leg, an’ the 
water jest riz on her side uv the pan an’ slipped 
.over on her apron as easy. She wuz a-standin’ 
right ag’in’ hit an’ hit made jest a narrer wet 
streak acrost her.” 

Almetta ducked her head and shrugged her 
shoulders and chuckled in delighted memory. 
‘ ^ I never ’lowed she ’d know I done hit, but she 
did, an’ she jest retched acrost that pan an’ 
slapped me clean out the door (we had the table 
right in front uv hit to git the air) ; an’ I landed 
sittin’ in the top uv a little peach-tree that had 
come up almost in the door an’ Bob was aimin’ 
to move hit in the fall. Hit finaciously ruined 
the tree, but hit never hurt me a grain. 

‘‘Betty wuz scairt slap to death. I know in 
reason she thought she had killed me, but she 
hadn’t. She never spoke an’ I never. I set 
there a spell an’ studied to myself, ‘She never 
axed me to come, an’ she won’t have to ax me 
to leave,’ an’ I riz off’n that wreck uv a bush 
an’ walked out bareheaded, just like I come. 
Betty never spoke a word to say go er stay; 
and I didn’t wait long to be axed. I ’low she 
49 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


was too glad to see me able to walk to think 
about stopping me. 

^^So I went down the creek, an’ as I wuz pas- 
sin’ Granny Ann’s she were settin’ out in the 
yard pickin’ geese. I stopped an’ watched her 
a spell, an’ finally I axed her if she didn’t want 
me to help her hold the gander. That wuz the 
masterest old gray gander you ever seen. She 
’lowed she didn’t care,^ an’ I went in, an’ me 
and her picked a whole passel uv geese. Long 
about supper-gettin’ time I took the buckets an’ 
went to the spring an’ fetched water; an’ then 
I hunted up splinters an’ put a fire in the stove 
and carried in stove wood: By that time I 
reckon granny sensed it that I wuz a-wantin ’ to 
stay, fer I seen her fix another place at the table 
(they wuz jest her an’ Uncle Ed’ard there, an’ 
she alters et with him), an’ she says, ^Almetty, 
I guess we’d better have honey fer supper; an’ 
I knowed I wuz ’lected. 

‘‘Arter a while Uncle Ed’ard come home 
(Uncle Ed’ard never did have the sense that 
Granny Ann’s got), an’ he come in the kitchen 
axin’ qnestions. ‘Hello, Almetty,’ he says, 
‘ you here ? What you doin ’ here ? ’ he says ; an ’ 
before I could shape to answer. Granny Ann 
spoke right up. She says, ‘Why, I’m a-needin’ 
her right bad, an’ she’s a-goin’ to stay with 
me a spell,’ and that’s pime blank how I come 
to be livin’ at Granny Ann’s. She said she 
were a-needin’ me, an’ the Lord knows I were 
a-needin’ her.” 

1 Was quite willing. 


50 


IV 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 

S Jimmy hitched his chair up to the sup- 



jl \ per table, one evening in early July, he 
said to his wife, ^ ‘ Orleny, as I passed down by 
Cinthy Bolings this afternoon she come down to 
the fence an’ called me to tell ye to come up.” 

‘‘What did she say she wanted me to come 
fer?” 

“She never said; she jest said be shore an’ 
tell ye to come up the fust chance. I wuz in a 
considerable press (hit must ’a’ been four 
o’clock), an’ I never stopped to talk.” 

“How wuz Cinthy lookin’?” 

“I never noticed nothin’ wrong with her. I 
seed she- had a fine chance uv taters an’ other 
sass in her gyarden.” 

“I ain’t seed Cinthy in alters,” said Orlena, 
“not sense long before that last baby come 
there : an’ hit must be better ’n four months old. 
I wonder what she could be wantin’?” 

“Well, I don’t know; she jest said fer ye to 
come up.” 

“la little believe I’ll go up there one day 
next week an’ see how they are farin’. Cinthy 
wuz one uv the civilest turned gals I ever had 
about me.” 


51 


ALMETTA OF GABEIEUS RUN 


‘‘Did she used to stay here with youT’ asked 
Almetta. 

“Yes, she stayed with me the winter before 
she was married. She wuz wantin’ to work out 
some little tricks fer herself. Me an’ her pap 
wuz a little bit uv kin, an’ me an’ her mammy 
is dost connections. Her pap wuz jest a renter 
an’ not very providin’.” 

“Her man ain’t very providin’ neither,” 
said Jimmy, “but Cinthy is moughty workin’ 
an’ managin’.” 

The next morning after Jimmy brought the 
message from Cinthy, Orlena was sitting in 
front of the upper house peeling red June ap- 
ples for a pie. The men were off at work and 
Almetta was “battling” clothes at the spring 
under the hill, when Gabriel Angel stopped in 
front of the fence and called, “Howdy.” 

“Why, howdy, Gabriel; cross over,” said 
Orlena cordially. 

“No, I ain’t hardly time, I reckon.” 

“Why, git right down an’ come in; you 
needn’t be in no hurry,” urged the woman. 

‘ ‘ Yes, I ’m in right smart uv a press. ” As he 
sat still upon his horse, the woman rose and 
went down to the fence. 

“Well, how air yer folks?” she asked. 

“Ay, well enough, I reckon. All stirrin’ an’ 
I don’t hear no complaint.” 

“Where yer goin’ now in sich a hurry?” 

“I’m goin’ down ter git Abe’s Molly to come 
up fer Cinthy Bolin’s baby.” 

“Why, hush, what’s the matter with Cin- 
thy?” 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 

/‘Cinthy^s dead.^’ 

^^Why, what air ye talkin^ ’bout, Grabriel? 
You know Cintby’s not dead!” 

‘^Cintby’s dead too.” 

‘‘Why, what ailed her? She wa’n’t sick ner 
nothin’, was she?” 

'^Naw, she wa’n’t complainin’ special at all: 
Lish said though she’s been kind uv drinlin’ all 
spring, an’ didn’t seem to git no stren’th sence 
that last baby come thar, an’ not able to work 
none. ’ ’ 

I ‘Why, I ain’t heard a word ’bout her not 
bein’ able to work. ’Pears like I’d ’a’ heard 
hit,” said the woman unwilling to believe. 

“Well, she’s made out to do her housework, 
an’ she’s made a very good gyarden, but she 
ain’t done no field work at all. She washed a 
big washin’ yist’d’y, an’ ’peared to he all right 
last night, Lish said; an’ she had done the 
things an’ let down the quiltin’ frame this 
mornin’ an’ started to quiltin’. Jim’s Viny 
went over early to git some turnip seed Cinthy 
had promised her, an’ found her settin’ by the 
quiltin ’-frame, speechless, with the needle 
clutched tight in her hand. ’ ’ 

“You know she didn’t!” 

“Yes, Viny got her to bed an’ called the chil- 
dren an’ Lish. Him an’ the two oldest uns 
jest happened to be hoein’ out a little patch 
dost to the house, an’ got thar before she quit 
breathin’: but she never spoke. She jest 
looked at ’em hard, Viny said, like she wanted to 
tell ’em somethin’, but she couldn’t tell what hit 
wuz. Viny axed her if she had prayed, an ’ she 
53 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


shet her eyes an^ opened ’em ag’in, an’ then 
Viny axed her ef she wuz willin’ ter die, an’ 
she shet her eyes an’ never opened ’em 
again.” 

^^Well, ef that don’t beat all! — an’ Cinthy’s 
dead!” murmured the woman in slow grieved 
tones; ‘‘an’ what air a-goin’ to become uv all 
them little young ’ns, lone handed?” 

“Why, we’ve got to divide ’em up amongst 
us, I reckon. Her mammy is a good old 
woman, but they ain’t none uv ’em in no shape 
to take the young ’ns; an’ they air all so little 
that something’s got to be done right at onct.” 

“Yes, something will have to be done.” 

“Viny sent right arter me, an’ I’m on my 
way now down to Abe ’s to see if Molly will take 
the baby one.” 

“That’ll be all right,” said Orlena. “Cin- 
thy’s baby’s pime blank the same age as Mol- 
ly’s; they was born the same night.” 

Both woman and man knew, in detail, the 
story of Molly’s twins and how one of them had 
lived only a few days — just long enough to 
make her feel that two babies were right, and to 
feel the emptiness of only one. 

Gabriel Angel well allowed that big-hearted 
Molly would give Cinthy’s baby a welcome in 
place of her own lost little one. 

“She will take hit all right, I know in rea- 
son,” said Orlena. 

“Yes, that’s what Viny an’ me wuz ’lowin’, 
an’ I wuz ’lowin’ you’d take one uv t ’others,” 
said Gabriel. 

“Yes, I’ll take the next oldest one,” she said 
54 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


quite simply, /‘ef Lish'll give hit up, an' of 
course he 'll have to. ' ' 

^‘Well, me an' Lize can handle the next one; 
they 's jest them two little gals besides the baby, 
you know, that they's any needcessity fur 
takin'. Marthy an' the boys'll have to help 
they pap, but them two little ones is too little to 
take to the field; they'd fall out and maybe git 
kilt, his land is so steep." 

‘‘Well, we can take them betwixt us an' hit 
won't be very hard on none uv us. ' ' 

“Little children is very easy handled." 

“Shore, shore," said Gabriel. “Viny 
'lowed she could take one ef she had to," he 
continued. “But they are right smartly 
scrouged at her place, with a big fambly an' jes' 
one house." 

“Lish and the four oldest uns can git along. 
Marthy is turned a heap like her maw, an' is 
moughty smart. Cinthy was moughty smart as 
long as she belt out." 

“Yes, Cinthy was smart," said Orlena sadly 
and slowly, “moughty smart an' workin' an' 
honest." 

“Too smart," said Gabriel sympathetically, 
“an' now she's gone. Well, Viny's with 'em 
now, but she can't stay no longer than to- 
night. ' ' 

“Will they bury her this afternoon?" 

“Yes, I reckon they can't hardly git ready be- 
fore late though. The houses is small an' they 
cook in one of them, an' hit would be the best to 
bury her this evenin'. So I sent Sid arter her 
maw. ' ' 


55 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


‘‘Yes, hit would be the best,’’ agreed Orlena. 
“Who’s makin’ the cofimr’ 

“Hen Holiday’s a goin’ ter make hit. Lish’s 
got some very nice inch poplar plank he’d got 
to make a loft over the upper house last winter, 
but he never made hit, an’ hit’ll come in handy 
fer the coffin. 

“Viny ’lowed you could come by the store an’ 
git the truck, an’ come up arter twelve an’ help 
line hit, ef yer want to. She said to git five 
yards uv black calico an’ five uv bleach, an’ a 
box uv springs, an’ she ’lowed hit’d be nice to 
have some narrer blue ribbon to trim hit with, 
but she said fer yer to do jist as yer pleased 
about hit. They won’t none uv her people git 
thar in time to he’p with the things.” 

“Well, all right,” said Orlena. “Wlio’s 
makin ’ the grave-clo ’es ? ” 

“Marthy Lewis is ’tendin’ to ’em; we ’lowed 
she’d be a good hand. She’s got a machine an’ 
her sister Mary can help her. Her an’ Cinthy 
was jist uv a size, an’ she lives dost, so we sent 
her word to go ahead an’ make ’em.” 

“That’s all right. Marthy ’s young, but 
she ’s very smart. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ W ell, I ’ll be goin ’ on down to Abe ’s. When 
air ye cornin’ to see us, Orlenyf” 

“WTiy, I’ll be up before long. Uncle Gabriel. 
WTiy don ’t you an ’ Lize come down ? ’ ’ 

“We will; we’ll be down before long. You 
conie up.” 

“I will. You come.” 

“Well, good-by.” 

“Good-b^y.” 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 

Orlena called Almetta from the wash-place 
and gave her directions about getting dinner 
for the men and finishing her washing ‘‘after 
twelve. ^ ’ 

She put the side-saddle on one of the mules, 
with the girPs help, changed her gray calico 
apron for a “white grounded^’ one with a black 
speck, changed her gray bonnet for a black mus- 
lin one, threw the saddle pockets across, the 
saddle, mounted and rode away. 

She knew exactly what it took to make a 
coffin. Many a one had she helped line and 
had made one, out and out once, when the 
men were all away on the big spring tide, and 
Nance AngePs baby had come still-born, so 
it was no unusual errand upon which she 
started. 

It was an interesting road that she traveled, 
winding along the streams and in and out of 
them, coming out into the open sunshine for 
long stretches and again dipping under over- 
hanging cliffs. The large leaves of the young 
hickory and those of the linn, smooth and * 
aurate, with the palmlike umbrella trees, gave 
the forest an almost tropical appearance. 

Blue and brown lizards ran over the old rail * 
fences and stopped and looked at her with a 
seeming closeness of attention and rigidity of 
attitude that to a nervous person might have 
seemed almost hypnotic. 

She saw, by a simple habit of seeing, every- 
thing along the road — that one neighbor's corn 
was foul with weeds, and another’s was clean; 
who had fenced a little and who was needing to : 

57 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


but her thoughts were not of these things, but of 
Cinthia, the girl, the woman, the departed, and 
of the possible exigencies of the day and how 
they should be met, and of her own commitment 
to taking one of the children. Most of all she 
was turning over in her mind Cinthia ^s message. 
She would have given much to know what the 
dead woman had been wanting of her. 

It was high noon when Orlena stopped at 
Joe’s for the coffin linings. She knew the time 
by the sun, though Joe’s clock pointed to half- 
past eleven and her own at home said a quarter 
to one. 

‘‘She’s a little slow,” said Joe, seeing Or- 
lena ’s eye on the clock. “I’ll wind her up and 
set her in a few minutes now. Hit’s about noon 
now, I reckon. ’ ’ 

The goods were brought and put in the saddle 
bags, and Orlena turning her mule’s head up 
Creely, came by the rough creek road to the 
house of mourning. 

The little windowless, two-roomed, boxed cot- 
tage stood not quite in the shade of a large elm- 
tree and looked quite small in the bright light of 
early afternoon. It would have looked very 
bare but for the rank growth of “blossoms” 
which crowded each other on both sides of the 
path and encroached upon it in places — mari- 
golds, bachelor buttons, four o ’clocks, princess 
feathers, and the long drooping pink lady- 
fingers. 

The shade of the tree had been utilized by the 
dead woman as a washing place. A tub hung 
against the tree, a small kettle stood on a stone 
58 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


at one side, and a battling-block and 'short slab 
bench occupied the thickest of the shade. 

Lish, stunned and desolate, sat there with 
baby Ettie fast asleep in his arms. Emma 
Jane played at his feet, and the other children, 
save Martha, the eldest, stood about in forlorn 
bewilderment. Martha had cooked and served 
the corn-bread and beans to the family and vis- 
iting neighbors, and washed the dishes, and see- 
ing Orlena coming, was at the gap in the low 
fence ready to help her ‘4ight.’’ 

The child had not shed a tear, but when Or- 
lena, after helping her hitch the mule and take 
otf the saddlebags, turned and gathered her in 
her arms, she clutched her convulsively and 
cried; ^‘Oh, mam! Oh, mam! Oh, mammy, 
mammy! Orlena, I can’t stand hit; I can’t 
stand hit ; I can ’t stand hit ! ’ ’ 

Orlena drew her close and said in slow, even 
tones, ‘^Oh, yes, Marthy, you’ll have to stan’ 
hit. What has been stood can be stood, an’ 
you’ll jest have to do like the rest uv us women, • 
stand what the good Lord sees fit to put on us. 
He’ll not overload ye, honey.” 

This brave creed of the mountain women, who 
stand the ills which flesh is heir to with a hero- 
ism which they must get from God, the child 
would have accepted with nothing to soften it ; 
but Orlena knew how to adorn the doctrine, and 
added tender words of assurance and pity. 
‘‘The Lord will help ye hisself, darlin’; an’ all 
the neighbors ’ll help; an’ yer pap an’ the chil- 
’ern. Ye’ll have to take right smart care uv 
yer pap, Marthy.” 


59 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


How often, in the towns, a girl left like this 
is watched over by her mother ^s friends with 
a view to helping her keep young and encourag- 
ing her to play. Not so in the hills, where every 
good woman who comes in gives the girl a hint 
as to how she may work and manage and ‘‘be a 
woman. ^ ’ 

The stunned child who went into Orlena’s 
arms with a cry for her mammy and that, she 
“could not stand it,’’ came out an awakened 
woman, conscious of the harness and ready to 
wear it. She went now and sat by her father, 
taking the baby from him, and Orlena went 
into the house. 

The nearer neighbor women had washed the 
body and it lay on a scaffold of boards, covered 
with a sheet, waiting for the grave-clothes and 
coffin. The women took Orlena ’s bundles and 
went out back of the house, where Hen Holi- 
» day was just finishing the cofiin. They covered 
it outside with the black calico, and inside with 
the white cotton, trimming the inner edge with 
the blue ribbon and a ruffle of white cotton lace 
which Orlena had added of her own accord. 

By-and-by Martha Lewis came with the 
grave-clothes finished. Orlena examined them 
approvingly. “I’m glad yer got a light- 
grounded piece for the dress,” she said. 

“Yes, I’d a liked ter ’a’ had a snow-white 
one,” said Martha, “but Joe jest had two er 
three pieces uv dress-goods an’ they wuz all 
dark but this one with the blue flower. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Ay, ^ hit ’s all right, ’ ’ said Orlena ; ‘ ‘ the 
flowers jest makes hit pretty. ’ 

60 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


Martha had brought everything new, and she 
and Orlena dressed the body, drawing over the 
work-worn hands the white cotton gloves. 

At last all was ready, and the coffin, with its 
rough boards hidden and its brave bit of ribbon 
and lace, all so perishable, held the still more 
perishable body of the woman, who had been 
brave in life without either ribbon or lace. The 
little tendrils of sun-burned yellow hair, which 
had been smoothed back properly, curled down 
lightly about her temples, but the dark fringed 
eyelids stayed down of themselves as if too tired 
ever to lift. 

Gabriel Angel lifted Emma Jane to look, and 
she said, ‘ ^ Pretty mammy ! ^ ’ 

Cinthia^s best bonnet was taken down from 
its nail and laid across her knees. 

The white bonnet and gloves, the new shoes, 
but more than all the white dress with the blue 
flower in it, seemed to suggest that she was 
starting upon a pleasant journey. But Cinthia 
was gone, had been gone since early morning, 
when her fingers, putting in the careful stitches, 
had fallen idle before the dew was dry on the 
lady-fingers blooming at her door. And none 
of the folk who had been busily engaged in pay- 
ing the last debts of good neighborship to her, 
who had ever shown a ^ ‘ Christian heart ’ ^ 
among them, doubted that she was consciously 
in glory, and to the least one they conceived of 
it as a great shining, with only rest and play. 

The coffin sat upon two hickory chairs. The 
only one remaining chair was occupied by Cin- 
thia ^s mother, who had come a little while be- 
W 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


fore, a woman bent and old and weather-beaten, 
but gentle-mannered and dignified. She had 
come in and been received without ado, though 
Orlena and some of the other women had come 
quietly and put their arms around her, kissing 
being little practised. She had smoothed back 
the curling tendrils of hair, patted the little bow 
which Martha Lewis had fashioned for the neck, 
murmuring; ^‘Pore little Cinthy, pore little Cin- 
thy ! Mammy would a heap druther to ’a ’ went 
first. Hit allers minded ever’ word me an’ hits 
pap said to hit. Hit was shore the best child 
on the place an’ the smartest; God bless hits 
little life.” Truly the wearing years had 
slipped away from Cinthia, and she was but her 
mother’s little child. 

After a while the mother sat silent, with 
drooped head and far-away look, and the women 
dried their eyes upon their aprons. 

Hen Holiday, who had a natural aptitude for 
carpentry and a few tools, had also a sympa- 
thetic nature and gentle manners, and so was 
by mutual consent the undertaker for the neigh- 
borhood, giving his time and labor, and often 
the lumber, as he was the miller too, as a mat- 
ter of course without a thought of pay, and 
rarely ever receiving any. He came now and 
stooping over the mother as she sat with bowed 
]head, said quietly, 

‘‘We ain’t aimin’ to hurry ye none, Ev’line, 
!but when ye think we had better start, why, 
ever ’thing is ready. But you jest take yer own 
time. Whenever you an’ Lish is ready will 
^uit ihe rest uv us. ” 


.62 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


said the woman, lifting herself 
wearily, ‘^hit’ll be gittin’ late, an^ they’s no 
benefit in waitin^; hit mought come up to rain 
agfin. We^d as well to go.’’ 

Lish and the children and friends came in and 
watched as Martha Lewis laid a white cloth over ^ 
the dead woman’s face, and Hen Holiday placed 
the coffin lid and drove the nails in lightly. It 
would be lifted and the real farewell would 
come at the grave. 

Half a dozen men carried the coffin out and 
placed it on a sled and the little company of'^ 
friends and neighbors accompanied it in irreg- 
ular procession. A few rode horses or mules, 
but most of the little company walked. The 
faces of most of the men were only quiet, but 
those of the women were tense. It was not as * 
if an illness and a waiting had prepared one’s 
mind for cheerful resignation; and unweaned 
children stared solemnly up into the faces of 
their mothers and were still. 

Abe and Molly -were there with their living 
twin, which Abe carried in his arms, while Cin- 
thy’s baby appeared content in the arms of its 
foster-mother. The next baby, Emma Jane, 
was riding in Orlena ’s lap, and Martha, the eld- 
est, behind her. The four-year-old girl rode 
on, the pommel of Gabriel’s saddle and slapped 
the horse’s neck with the loose ends of the 
bridle-reins, calling out cheerfully, ‘‘Hit up!” 
to the slow-moving horse. Lish and the two 
boys trudged, with their neighbors, behind the 
sled. 

Jt was mot -far -to the burying-ground, but it 
63 


ALMETTA OF G AERIE US RUN 


was hot and sultry, and all were glad to drop 
down in the shade while Hen Holiday saw that 
the grave and box were all right. 

When all was ready the nails, which had been 
driven lightly in the coffin-lid, were drawn, and 
Martha Lewis took away the face-cloth and re- 
placed upon her bosom the right hand, which 
had slipped a little; surely it was not used to 
such long repose; and the family drew for the 
last time in an unbroken circle close about her 
who had been its center. 

There was a bit of wailing and a few broken 
words from husband and mother in testimony of 
her goodness, and piteous choking sobs from 
the older children, before the friends drew them 
all away, and Hen Holiday replaced the lid, 
driving the nails down tight. Orlena said sim- 
ply but quite audibly, ‘^She had a Testament 
and she follered readin’ it. She told me long 
ago that the Lord had forgive her sins and that 
she was livin’ perfect happy ; and now they ain’t 
nothin’ for us that’s left to do but to try to 
follow where she’s gone.” 

And so one to whose faithfulness and purity 
a paean might have been sung was buried with- 
out oration, hymn or spoken prayer, in a grave, 
dug carefully due east and west, with her face 
to the east, just as every one else was ; but some 
time in the future the funeral would be held. 

This severing of interment and funeral did 
not seem strange to a people who understood so 
well the necessity of the custom. 

Lish had^ consented that the little children 
should go with the neighbors ‘‘until Marthy sort 
64 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


uv got her bearings with her housekeeping, as 
Orlena kindly suggested to him. 

As Orlena rode away from the grave with 
the little child, she guessed it must be about 
four o’clock, and she remembered that at the 
same hour yesterday Jimmy had ‘^seen nothin’ 
wrong” with Cinthia. 

It had been rather a showery season, and 
there was a threat of rain. Orlena held the 
child in her lap and rode home at a brisker 
gait than usual, but Almetta had been expecting 
her for some time, and was at the step-block 
when she rode up. 

The little one had enjoyed the ride and had 
come quietly enough, but when Orlena drew rein 
at a strange place, and a strange girl held out 
her hands coaxingly to take her, she drew back, 
clutching Orlena ’s arm tightly, and began to 
cry. 

Don’t cry, honey; go to the gal! Why, 
that’s a nice gal an’ she’ll give yer some sup- 
per,” but the child clung and whimpered. 

‘‘Well, now. Sugar,” said the girl caress- 
ingly, as she drew the protesting little body 
down into her arms. “Come on now, me an’ 
you’ll get us a pretty. God bless hits little 
heart, don’t cry. Sugar!” 

She had the child in her arms, swinging her- 
self and it from side to side as one would hush 
a babe (it was little more), and crooned fair 
promises of supper and “pretties.” 

“Give hit something to eat right now, hit’s 
bound to be hungry,” called Orlena as she led 
her mule around to the barn. 

65 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


But the child continued to wail and would not 
eat, though she drank thirstily and held a piece 
of bread in her hand, and Almetta, with the 
universal instinct for motion, light and color, 
carried her from one ‘‘pretty’’ to another. 
She stopped whimpering after a while and took 
a dubious interest in the great white blossoms 
of the mallows; and putting out the hand with 
the bread in it, she laid a chubby forefinger in 
the scarlet chalice of a hollyhock, saying, “Blos- 
sie, blossie”; but her own familiar voice in the 
unfamiliar scene was her undoing. She turned 
and stared at Almetta, the corners of her mouth 
quivered and drooped, the bread fell from her 
hand, and drawing the little finger back against 
her side, as if the bright blossom had left a 
sting, she broke into a fresh wail, the last trem- 
bling catches of which were only hushed under 
Almetta ’s sleepily patting hand, hours after, as 
the rain pattered upon the roof. 

Jimmy, who had been away since early morn- 
ing, came in quite late for supper, and as Or- 
lena was serving him said, “Hit ’pears like 
I’ve had Cinthy Bolin on my mind all day some 
way. I a little believe ef I wuz you I’d go up 
thar in the momin’ an’ see what she was 
wantin’.” 

“I’ve been to-day,” she replied. 

“What wuz she wantin’?” 

“She never said.” 

Jimmy looked up quickly and asked, “Any- 
thin’ wrong up thar?” 

“Well,” said Orlena calmly, “only the Lord 
God knows the difference between right an’ 
66 


THE WANTS OF A WOMAN 


wrong, an’ thar don’t appear to be nobody to 
blame, but they’s a smart, good, nacberly 
healthy woman dead, an’ a fambly uv young ’ns 
scattered, an’ a little gal left in a woman’s 
place; but Cinthy died without makin’ no com- 
plaints nor statin’ her wants.” 


67 


V 


LOVE AND WISDOM 

A fter Cinthia’s death and the bringing in 
of Emma Jane, Almetta was kept at home 
from the field more than ever. Indeed Jimmy 
had confided to his wife that the girPs work 
with the hoe amounted to very little, but that 
Gran worked as hard again when she worked 
with him. This was quite unusual, and he 
thought the boy was trying to make up for and 
hide her lack: so he left them alone and ap- 
peared not to notice, as he was getting the 
work of two good hands. 

“Now, Jimmy,’’ Orlena had protested, 
“don’t you put them young ’ns to hoein’ by 
theirselves. ” 

“Orleny, I believe you are plum franzy,” re- 
plied her sometimes lord and master; “they 
can’t no harm come to them a-hittin’ them clods, 
an’ I’m fer gittin’ through the weeds”; but he 
made no protest when she stated that she 
needed Almetta at the house, other than observ- 
ing that it would more than likely make her 
proud. 

The girl had quite a knack with children, and 
had assumed the care of Emma Jane as a mat- 
ter of course. 


68 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


^ In a few days the little one was trotting hap- 
pily about the place, or sitting quietly nursing 
a doll which Almetta had fashioned from a cob 
and a rag. There was little semblance to the 
human in this doll, but Almetta had pointed out 
its features and described its beauty and grace 
so graphically that the small girl, leaning hard 
toward the woman, felt no lack. Gran prom- 
ised that the very next tide that came, he would 
bring her a real ‘‘poppet^’ doll from “ below. 

Orlena observed with satisfaction that Al- 
metta was quite unusually impartial to sex, — in- 
deed rather indifferent to the men and boys 
who came about the place, even to Gran, who 
was a handsome magnetic fellow and not at all 
indifferent to the beauty and cheerfulness of the 
girl. 

This indifference to the opposite sex was a 
rare trait for a girl in her teens in a country 
where marriage and parenthood are not only 
the great illuminations of woman’s life, but 
with so many almost the sole illumination. 

Almetta made poor use of the hoe in the 
fields, but she would dig or weed the ^‘blossom” 
beds and boxes, or carry rich earth for them 
from the woods until her back and legs ached 
and her hands trembled; and Orlena ’s store of 
fancy patchwork quilts and striped blankets and 
her wonderful old ‘ ‘kiverlids ” filled her with de- 
light. She had helped piece ^^nine patches” 
and ‘‘diamonds” and “stars,” but none like 
these. The brilliant “Rocky-Mountain” quilt 
with its exquisite and intricate feather and 
crown quilting, and the gorgeous “Rainbow 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


Rose’^ filled lier with joy, but the mellow har- 
mony of the ‘‘Rose of Sharon^’ appealed to her 
most, and she pronounced it to be her “fa-vo- 
rite/’ 

The thrifty mountain women have two reg- 
ular seasons of quilting and working with wool 
— midsummer, between planting and cultivat- 
ing and harvest, and midwinter, between har- 
vest and planting. These correspond with the 
logging seasons for the men, when they go to 
the woods with axes and saws, cant-hooks and 
hand-spikes, to a purely man’s job, leaving the 
women to their purely feminine work with the 
“pieces” and the wool. 

Very occasionally a woman “drives a saw,” 
or ploughs as very occasionally a man cooks. 
Neither is usual on the Forks of the Kentucky 
River. And so during these hot summer days, 
while Jimmy and Gran and the Prices were 
“laying-by” the corn and planning to go to the 
timber, Orlena and Almetta made the spinning- 
wheel sing or worked over the scraps, contrast- 
ing light and dark, and bright and dull, in pleas- 
ing combinations. 

Almetta was working upon a “diamond” 
pieced quilt which was to be followed by a 
“lady-slipper,” a conventional design from the 
familiar little orchid of the hills, in green and 
yellow and pink on a white ground. It was one 
of the simpler patterns of the fancy “patch,” 
or applique, quilts but very chaste and pretty; 
and if she succeeded with it well, Orlena who 
did not object to a pride but abhorred idleness, 
promised her that she might make a “Rose of 
70 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


Sharon’’ for herself. She said she just knew 
that if she had a ‘‘Kose of Sharon” quilt she’d 
be ‘^perfect satisfied,” but had added, wist- 
fully, ‘‘an’ if I could read an’ write.” 

She had begun her diamonds quite small, but 
as imagination leaped forward through the 
making and quilting of it, and the “lady-slip- 
per,” before the goal of the “Rose of Sharon” 
was approached, she quietly put the small 
pieces she had cut in the bottom of the pile and 
was beginning on a much larger scale when 
Orlena joined her. 

“I been a-studyin’ on gittin’ the loom down 
an’ havin’ hit set up,” Orlena said. “I ain’t 
wove any fer several years now. But arter all 
I don’t believe I will. I’ve got enough linsey to 
make yours and Emma Jane’s undercoats; an’ 
I believe I’ll send some wool off an’ have some 
cloth made. I seed some mighty pretty cloth 
that Marthy Lewis had made, an’ the loom is 
so big an’ onhandy, it’s illconvenient an’ awk- 
’ard to have around. We can spin some more 
stockin’ yarn out’n the spring’s wool, an’ then 
have enough of hit left to make a turn to send 
off; an’ I’ll just sell the fall’s wool. I don’t 
care about workin ’ hit up nohow. Hit ’s knotty 
an’ coarse an’ don’t work up pretty an’ saft 
like the spring shearin’s. I been a-thinkin’, Al- 
metty, ef they hire a rale knowin’ teacher fer 
the school, that you could go some this fall, ef 
you’ve a mind to.” 

“I’d be proud ter go,” said the girl, “but 
who’d mind Emmy Jane? I ain’t a-goin’ ter 
have her a-worryin’ you.” 

71 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


^‘Why, she wouldn’t be no worryment to me 
a-tall. She ain’t a grain uv trouble. She’ll 
jist be good company. God bless hits little 
heart, hit’s got the favorence uv hits mammy 
till I couldn’t help pyorely lovin’ hit.” 

‘‘I’d shore love to go to school, but I never 
would git my Eosy quilt made ef I did.” 

“Yes, you will; they’s plenty o’ time fer 
Eosy quilts, as ye call hit. I’m a mind to holp 
ye make it, and we can piece ag’in next winter 
an’ fer several winters, as fer as that goes. 
An’ a little schoolin’ won’t hurt ye.” 

“I went nearly all one fall when I lived at 
Granny Ann’s an’ got a very pretty start.” 

“Did ye?” 

“Yes. I never had no First Eeader, but they 
wuz a old Second Eeader there an’ I took hit, 
an’ the teacher never knowed the defference. 
Mammy could read an’ she had lamed me an’ 
Sid our letters an’ to spell some, an’ I got along 
all right in the Second Eeader. The teacher 
was very smart, an’ could ’a’ lamed us a heap 
ef she’d ’a’ tried, but she was very dilatory 
about attendin’ to the young ’ns, an’ some uv 
’em never learned their A.B., abs.” 

“Who was she?” 

“Why, she war a Benton gal, from away yan, 
an’ she went to ever’ frolic she could hear uv in 
the county an’ she allers come back a-lookin’ 
like the hind wheels uv destruction. Hit ’d take 
her two er three days study sleepin’ ter git over 
hit, an’ she didn’t care what the young ’ns done. 
But some days she’d stan’ over us with a limb 
an’ be a pyore teacher.” 

72 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


‘‘Well,’’ said Orlena, “you stay with me an’ 
be good an’ smart, an’ I’ll git you all the hooks 
ye think you ’ll need an ’ let you go to school. I 
’low schoolin’s better ’n marryin’ fer young 
gals.” 

“I don’t never aim ter marry. I’ve studied 
on hit some, but hit ’pears to me like cookin’ an’ 
washin’ an’ sewin’ an’ all the work about a 
place is too much ter have ter do fer a man that 
hain’t no kin to ye,” said Almetta decidedly. 

“Well, hit’s a right smart,” laughed Orlena. 

“I’d like to be a school teacher,” said the girl 
placidly, as she matched a deep pink square — 
which she called red — with a gray one. 

“Have ye ever talked any, Almettyl” asked 
Orlena. 

“Yes, a little, but none to hurt,” replied the 
girl. 

“Well,” said Orlena, “I ain’t never been in 
no country but this one to larn any detferent 
ways f’m what we f oiler here, but I’ve studied 
on hit a heap myself ; more in particular sence 
my own childern growed up an’ married. An’ 
I sensed hit that ef a young gal can make out to 
keep straight, an’ has a good home, she’d better 
stay by hit, an’ let talkin’ an’ marryin’ be; 
anyhow until she’s old enough an’ has lamed 
enough to spend her opinions an’ have some 
’tention paid ’em. The boys is all men from 
the time they can stan’ up in a chair by the 
table an’ glaum theirselves with a spoon; an’ 
when a young gal marries a man she ain ’t axed 
to spend her opinions on many subjects.” 

“I reckon that eleven-year-old gal that mar- 
73 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


ried over on Haley Fork t’other day will git to 
keep all o’ hern,” said Almetta. ‘‘That shore 
wuz the youngest one I ever hyeard uv. Tilly 
Burton was jist thirteen though.” 

“Yes, they ain’t many that marries at eleven 
er thirteen airy one; but some does, an’ a whole 
lot goes off at fifteen, an’ seventeen is the reg- 
erlar age. I reckon most uv ’em marries the 
fust one that axes ’em, an’ I reckon that’s what 
the Lord means ’em ter do ; hit saves confusion. 
But the men oughtn’t to ax little gals.” 

“They does though,” said Almetta. 

“Yes, there was my Lindy married at fifteen. 
She could ’er married at thirteen, though, er 
any time arterwards ef we ’d ’a ’ let her, but they 
weren’t no stoppin’ ’er when she set her heart 
on Tom. He was a very civil, well-turned boy, 
Tom wuz, an’ come uv a mighty well-doin’ fam- 
ily, an’ her pap wuz willin’, so I had ter give 
in.” 

“Didn’t yer want her to marry?” 

“No, I wuz ag’in’ hit on account uv her age, 
tho’ hit suited very well, in a way, fer ’em to 
marry. His pap’s Ian’ jines our’n at the top 
uv the ridge, an’ between us we give ’em a very 
nice little farm. His mam an’ me give ’em a 
plenty uv ever ’thing fer the house, in the way 
Qv beddin’ and sich, an’ we give ’em chickens 
an’ seed-taters an’ onions, an’ ever ’thing that 
erway; an’ his pap an’ Jimmy give ’em a cow 
an’ a horse an*’ a pig an’ a couple uv yearlin’ 
steers. Well, betwixt us we jist give ’em the 
prettiest start you ever seen, jist ever ’thing a 
body’d have any needcessity fer. I belt back 
74 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


ag’in’ hit as long as I could; an^ then I rech 
forward es far as I conld, an^ wuz in hopes 
they ’d git along. ’ ^ 

‘‘An’ didn’t they git along.” 

“Yes, they wuz mighty lovin’ fer a while, an 
Tom stuck to her like a sick kitten to a hot hath- * 
stone. Lindy was smart an’ very managin’ to 
her age, an’ she’d do up her housework an’ git 
out her knittin’ an’ set on the front porch an’ 
knit socks fer him an’ watch fer him as he 
passed up an’ down with the log- wagon. Hit 
wuz pretty to see her, an’ she could turn a heel 
like a woman. ’Feared like they thought the 
world uv one another too.” 

“What wuz the matter with ’em, then?” 

“Well, they had been married about four 
months when her man went to dig a well. She 
wanted hit dug on the upper side uv the house 
so’st it’d be handy to the kitchen an’ wash- 
place, but he ’lowed no, he’d dig hit on t’other 
side, so’st he’d have the shade to dig in in the 
mornin ’s. Hit ’peared to contrary her a sight, 
an ’ they yaggered over hit till she got plum mad 
an’ wanted to quit him an’ come home; but I 
told her she’d made her bed ag’in’ my counsel 
an’ now she could lay in hit accordin’ to my 
counsel. She stormed an’ cried an’ ’lowed a 
well in the wrong place all the time would 
be powerful hinderin’; an’ uv course she wuz 
right on that p’int; but she wa’n’t woman 
enough to show him nothin’ he didn’t want to 
see.” 

“Did she quit him?” 

“No, I partly begged an’ partly made her, 
75 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


an^ finally she agreed to stay. His folks wuz 
mighty good to her too.’^ 

where did they dig the wellT’ 

‘‘Well, they kept on carryin’ water from the 
spring all that fall an^ winter, an’ the next 
spring his pap tuck a switch uv witch hazel 
an’ found water in the front yard, an’ had the 
well dug there, very handy to ever ’thing, but 
not where neither one uv them was contendin’ 
fer, an’ hit wuz one uv the best-sensed turns the 
old man ever took. He ’lowed they’d jist let 
the switch settle hit, but he belt the switch his- 
self. He ’lowed he was a master waterwitch, 
an ’ I reckon he wuz. ’ ’ 

“Well, did Lindy an’ Tom git along all right 
then?” 

“Yes, me an’ Jimmy an’ his folks kind o’ 
witched ’em along, as ye might say, tell they 
come to their senses an’ stopped yaggerin’ over 
little nothin’s, an’ when the childern begun 
cornin’ they done very well. 

“Ef old folks would encourage less marryin’ 
an’ more peace, hit’d be a benefit. But hit 
’pears like a heap o’ folks don’t pay so overly 
much ’tention to the childern marryin’ an’ quit- 
tin’, an’ some marries with the expectation uv 
quittin’ whenever they’s a mind to, an’ marryin’ 
ag’in when they gits ready.” 

“Like Uncle Buddy’s Sissy?” said Almetta. 

“Yes, pime blank like Buddy’s Sissy! It 
’pears to me like hit would confuse a person to 
have so many promises out, an’ them witnessed 
before God an’ man; an’ shorely any right- 
minded woman ’d be ’shamed to be livin’ with 
76 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


one man an^ ^nother one ramikin’ ’round the 
country, likely to turn up any time. But I 
hears they does hit everVheres; down in the 
settlements, too, nice-appearin’, high-headed 
women marryin’ men that’s knowed to have 
some hussy a-lawin’ ’em,” she added. 

‘‘Sissy married twice, an’ she’s left both her 
rnen an’ sparks Hence Duke ever’ chanct she 
gits. She sparked Hence before she married 
the first one. Folks says she’d settle down ef 
Hence would have her, but he won’t.” 

“Course he won’t,” said Orlena. 

“Well, Uncle Jake Hicky, on Dusty, has two 
wives at onct,” said Almetta. “Ann lives 
aways up the branch, an’ Nance lives at the 
mouth, an’ they’s jist as good to one another 
as they can be. Ann ’ll take care uv Nance’s 
young ’ns when she wants to go off to the store 
er a funeral meetin’ er enywheres; an’ Nance’ll 
do the same by her. 

“Uncle Jake buys fer ’em all, an’ they all 
crap together. Ann is the one he’s married to, 
an’ I a little believe she’s the hardest-workin’, 
best woman uv the two an’ the savinest. 
Nance’s young ’ns air the prettiest, but Ann’s 
air the cleanest and civilest. 

“Orleny, ef you wuz me would you piece a 
square uv this sky-blue with the snow-white?” 

“No, hit looks very pretty in the hand thater- 
way, but them solid deep colors makes the 
white stand out too strong in the quilt.” 

“Well, that’s shore to be the fact, I reckon, 
an’ that blood red an’ snow-white one I pieced 
yestiddy is strong enough to make a poultice, 
77 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


I’ll put hit in the main top row where the pil- 
lows ’ll hide hit. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, that’ll he all right, an’ now I ’spect 
you’d better lay up your pieces an’ put a fire in 
the stove fer supper, an’ we’ll have hit early. 
Jimmy an’ Gran won’t work late on a Sat’d’y.” 

“Most uv the boys won’t work a-tall on a 
Sat’dy arternoon, ner a heap uv the men,” said 
the girl. 

“No, but Jimmy’s a little workin’er than 
most uv ’em. I’ll finish my hank before I stop, 
an’ then you can holp me set the wheel in the 
lower house tell Monday.” 

They did not cook any on Saturday for the 
Sabbath, but they cleared the deck of all other 
work. 

Jimmy came in Sunday afternoon from a lit- 
tle rail-fence whittling meeting with some of 
the neighbors and reported at supper that the 
noration had been given out, in monthly meet- 
ing over on Talt’s Fork the Sunday before, that 
Harrison Pate’s funeral would be preached at 
the Pate grave P’int, on this coming Sunday, 
so Ans Anderson had reported. 

Harrison Pate, a cousin of Jimmy’s, had died, 
as the result of an accident, while logging, the 
winter before, when he and his brother-in-law 
were easing a great log into position to send 
down the chute. 

It was said deprecatingly that if he had been 
“plum” sober the fatal accident needn’t have 
happened, and then it was added apologetically 
that it had been a mighty cold spell and it was 
allowed that he actually needed a little some- 
78 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


thing to warm him up maybe. At any rate he 
had had it, and being not quite steady, as a re- 
sult, had let his handspike slip, turning the log 
loose, just as they were rolling it over a little 
rise to deliver it into the chute. It had 
bounded, knocking the old man down, rolling 
over his lower extremities, and crashing off 
down the hill out of its proper path, just graz- 
ing another man and quite demolishing a corn- 
crib at the foot of the hill. 

Harrison Pate had married and lived and 
met his fate on GabriePs Kun, but had asked to 
be buried on the head of Hatchet Creek, among 
his own people. It had been a bad business, 
taking the body so far in winter, but Harrison 
had asked it. 

He had lived a few days in a condition the 
sight of which would have moved a heart of 
stone; all the neighbors for miles around had 
seen his poor crushed limbs. They raised the 
quilt, gazing and speaking frankly their horror 
and sympathy, and calling him ^Ghe bravest 
man ever seen’’ for not complaining. In truth 
he was not suffering; a merciful paralysis pre- 
vented it. 

A doctor was finally gotten in, late on the 
third day after the accident, and the old man 
died from the anaesthetic before the operation 
of removing his limbs had begun. 

He had not been a particularly good man, 
either to his family or among the neighbors; 
but the case had created much sympathy and 
talk, and he had professed religion, and given 
sight of good counsel” on his death-bed. 

79 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


The funeral was apt to be well attended. 

wonder what preachers theydl haveT^ 
asked Orlena. 

Why, them Mackays and Philip Gayheart air 
amongst ’em, I believe Ans said.” 

‘‘Suze would be shore to have Philip,” said 
Orlena. 

‘‘Hit’s full early fer funerals, hain’t it!” 
asked Gran. 

“Well, I don’t know. Hit’s a little earlier 
than common, but I’ve knowed uv ’em being 
held earlier.” 

“Harrison’s brother Bob is here from Okla- 
homy, I’ve hyeard.” 

“Yes, he’s a wantin’ his little Sammy’s fu- 
neral preached before he goes back, an’ he’s 
got to go right at onct. ’ ’ 

“Shore, that’s hit,” said Orlena. “They’ll 
jist preach ’em both at onct, before he goes 
back.” 

“That little fellow died jist before they went 
West, didn’t he!” 

“Yes, I recollect Marthy’s worryin’ over not 
havin’ hits funeral attended to; but they went 
otf in sort uv a hurry on account uv her health. ’ ’ 

“Yes. Well, Ans said Bob ’lowed this’d be 
a good chanct. He ’lowed Marthy’d worried 
about hit all along an’ hit’d be a heap uv satis- 
faction to ’em all to have hit attended to. Ans 
was tollin’ us about hit. 

“He seed Suze about Harrison, an’ they’ll 
both be preached a Sunday.” 

“Well,’] said Orlena, “I’m glad myself, 
Bob’s havin’ little Sammy’s funeral preached; 

80 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


some folks don^t think hit makes much deffer- 
ence about a child, that erway, but I do. Hit’s 
bad enough to have to lose ’em, with no preacher 
handy to speak a word an’ lay ’em away — 
maybe under the snow, like Marthy had to lay 
this’n — without leavin’ ’em lay an’ never a 
word said over ’em. ’ ’ 

The men pushed back from the table, and Al- 
metta took her seat with Emma Jane in her 
lap. The child was old enough to feed herself, 
but she was very small and Dresden like; and 
Almetta preferred to make a baby of her in 
some ways. Orlena humored her, even to the 
extent of rocking her to sleep (in a chair with- 
out rockers) in the evenings, while she herself 
began the dish-washing. 

It was still broad daylight, though the sun 
had dropped behind the hill, when Almetta took 
the child and a chair into the side-yard, and 
without the formality of prayer or nightie laid 
the drowsy child up across her bosom, with its 
head on her shoulder, and began rocking the 
chair, slowly and easily, back and forward, sing- 
ing softly: ^^Come, thou Fount of ever-y bless- 
ing,” to an old, old tune. The little lids went 
tight shut in a minute. 

Gran came out, and dropping on the short 
turf of crab grass, which had been too tenacious 
to be swept away, sat silently until the verse 
was finished; and as Almetta gently lowered 
the sleeping child to her lap he asked with well- 
assumed carelessness, ‘‘Almetty, how’d ye like 
ter go to that funeral!” 

‘‘I might like hit very well,” she said. 

81 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘‘Well, then, le’s me an’ you go.” 

“Naw, sir, I hain’t a-goin’ to hit; leastways, 
I hain’t a goin’ with you.” 

The words might have been unkind, if the 
voice and manner had been, but there was no 
sting in the gentle, level tone; and Almetta 
seemed to be thinking of something else. 

“Who air ye goin’ with, then!” 

“I don’t reckon I am a-goin’ with nobody, but 
I’d like to go very well. I’d like to hear Philip 
preach again, and I never have been on Hatchet 
Creek; I don’t know nothin’ about that side of 
the river. I used to go to preachin’ with 
mammy an’ hear Philip when I wuz jist a leetle 
bit uv a gal an’ they belt monthly meetin’s on 
the head uv Grabriel, on the right-hand fork.” 

“I ain’t never been on the head of Gabriel,” 
said Gran. 

“Well, the settlement up there is nearly all 
Angels, an’ when Philip used to come over that 
part uv his prayer about ‘angels an’ ark 
angels a-passin’ an’ repassin’ an’ a-castin’ 
their glitterin’ crowns before the throne,’ I 
thought he meant Uncle Gabe’s connection, an’ 
that he wuz bein’ kind uv partial to Arkie, be- 
cause she was the prettiest an’ a-talkin’ to his 
boy Jim. Hain’t childern quareU’ she said. 

“Yes, an’ big gals is quare too, sometimes,” 
he said ruefully, and after a pause, “Why won’t 
ye go to the funeral with me, Almetty?” 

“Well,” she said, “ef ye must know, beca’se 
ef we go traipsin’ around with one another, 
folks’ll have hit that you an’ me’s a talkin’.” 

“Ay, they’ll say that anyway, ef they ain’t 
82 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


already a-sayin’ hit, after we’ve crapped to- 
gether otf and on all spring an’ summer.” 

‘‘I know hit, hut as long as we don’t p’int- 
edly give ’em no call to, hit won’t make no def- 
ference.” 

‘‘Well, so fur as that goes,” said Gran, flush- 
ing, ‘‘I’m willin’ ter talk.” 

“I’m not,” said the girl quietly, “not now, 
noways. ’ ’ 

“When will ye he?” the boy urged. 

“I ain’t sayin’ I ever will be.” 

There was a minute’s pause before the boy 
continued, “Ye air deiferent to most uv the 
gals, Almetty.” 

And Almetta, with woman’s complaisance, 
said simply, “I hope so”; and with a woman’s 
willingness to have the particulars, asked, 
“How?” 

“Why, most uv the gals marries the fust one 
axes ’em.” 

“I hain’t shore but that’s what the Lord 
meant fer most folks to do,” said the girl read- 
ily; “hit saves confusion. But a heap uv ’em ^ 
is as keen to quit as they wuz to marry, an’ sev- 
eral uv’m does quit, an’ that’s a sight worse ’n 
ef they’d chanced waitin’. I aim to wait my- 
self, an’ know several things.” 

It was quite a chunk of wisdom for one so 
young; and Gran regarded her thoughtfully, 
and was dangerously near smiling as he 
asked, 

“Whose idys is them, Almetty? Or did ye 
reason them out by yerself?” 

“WeU, ef they wuz anybody else’s, they’s 
83 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


mine now, an’ I never stole ’em neither.” She 
was smiling broadly. 

reckon they wuz jist give to ye maybe. ” 

‘‘They mought ’a’ been,” said the girl, gath- 
ering Emma Jane np in her arms preparatory 
to rising; and as she stirred, “Bless my pretty 
poppet, I’m a-aimin’ to make hit a little black 
dress trimmed in red, an’ git Orleny to take me 
an’ hit to hits mammy’s fun’ral whenever they 
have hit preached. ’ ’ 

“Maybe I’ll git to take you to that fun’ral,” 
called the boy after her quizzically as she 
walked away. 

“Well, now, you mought,” replied the girl, as 
she stepped into the house, “ef they puts it off 
long enough.” 

The boy thought ruefully of one he had at- 
tended the fall before, of a woman who had been 
dead twenty years. He really had some misty 
ideas himself along the line which Almetta had 
quoted so easily from Orlena, but her disap- 
pearance with the child left him lonely ; and her 
refusal of his suit, which the turn of the conver- 
sation had led him to begin, had the usual effect 
of piquing his heretofore unformed desire 
into activity; and her manner of being inde- 
pendent, gently, without flaunting the quality, 
made her seem suddenly very, very dear and 
desirable. He hitched over to the chair left va- 
cant by her and leaned his arms and head upon 
it. He was just a big boy after all, and away 
from his home and mother ; and he felt the need 
of love. Jimmy did not occupy the same place 
in his life as Orlena did in the girl’s. 

84 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


‘‘Well/’ lie said after a while, “she never did 
say she wouldn’t never talk.” 

Almetta had another chance that evening to 
go to the funeral, which she accepted as readily 
as she had declined Gran’s. 

When she had put the child to bed and re- 
turned to the kitchen Orlena said, 

“Almetty, bow’d you like to go with me to 
that funeral meetin’ next Sunday?” 

“Why, I’d jist love to go,” she replied. 

“Well, don’t build on hit tell we see how 
things turns out, but maybe we ’ll git to go. ’ ’ 

In a few days it was decided that they would 
go, and Almetta began making her plans. 
Gran had nothing to say about it, nor did he di- 
rectly mention his growing conviction of the ab- 
solute “deference” between Almetta and all 
other women, but he began to attend, very reg- 
ularly each evening, the ceremony of putting 
Emma Jane to sleep. There were no other 
young people to banter them; Jimmy did not 
care, but rather liked it, and with a man ’s readi- 
ness to use everything and everybody for his 
own ends, began building a little plan of his 
own upon the probability of an ultimate mar- 
riage between them. 

Orlena saw no smooth way of preventing, and 
had only a theoretical objection anyway, and a 
heart that warmed to anything that was true; 
and so the boy would sit on the grass feeding 
his heart upon the world-old picture, for which 
all little girls, and most women, love to pose, 
“The mother and child.” 

Almetta, who had been liked before, was in 
85 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEVS RUN 

no way flattered by Gran’s proposal; indeed it 
had come up so casually that she did not think 
much about it, and she was in flne spirits, going 
to Joe’s for calico and bits of finery, and Orlena 
had filled her cup of happiness sending to town 
by the postman for a ‘‘blossom hat” for her. 
She had sewed, and sung funeral hymns, and 
fetched and carried for everybody all the week, 
and been very happy. Gran had been very 
quiet, but her friendliness was very sweet to 
him, and his heart was full of hope. Jimmy 
had quietly talked his own needs in such a way 
that Gran could easily guess the possibilities of 
an advantageous arrangement for himself and 
Almetta, if only the girl would agree. 

The following Saturday evening, the day be- 
fore the memorial service for old man Harrison 
and little Sammy Pate, Emma Jane was not 
sleepy and declined to be rocked. After a few 
minutes of desultory talk. Gran asked with well- 
assumed carelessness, “Almetty, did you know 
they wuz a plum good little house standin’ 
empty on the upper end of Jimmy’s place?” 

“In the Green Holler?” she asked. 

“Yes sir, in the Green Holler, too.” 

“Yes, I knowed hit allers ago. Me an’ Or- 
leny went sangin’ up aroun’ that way onct, an’ 
I seed hit.” 

“Hit’s a rale pretty little place, hain’t it?” 

“Yes, I reckon hit’s a very pretty place; I 
never noticed hit much.” 

“I wuz up that way this mornin’, lookin’ fer 
a handspike that Jimmy said had been lost up 
about thar some’ers last winter; an’ I stopped 
86 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


at the spring fer a drink; I believe hit^s the 
coldest water I ever drunk. ^ ’ 

‘^Yes, hit’s very good water,” admitted the 
girl. 

like to see a place handy to water that 
way,” pursued the boy, ‘‘an’ plenty of good 
wood dost. Hit’s a mighty rich little cove 
thar. I axed Jimmy why he didn’t have taters 
an’ truck up thar, but he ’lowed hit were ill- 
convenient from here.” 

“Yes, hit’s too fur,” said the girl. 

“I never paid no strict ’tention to the house,” 
he said (this was scarcely according to fact) ; 
“but hit would need a nice little porch ef any- 
body ever undertook to live in hit. ’ ’ 

He paused and handed Emma Jane her doll a 
couple of times. She was having a little game 
of her own, dropping it for him to pick up. 

“An’ hit ought by rights to have a winder; I 
think ever’ house ought to have a winder, don’t 
you?” 

“Yes, winders looks moughty pretty in a 
house, an’ you can git so much good fresh air 
through ’em, ’ ’ said the girl quietly. 

“Yes, an’ you can have light with the door 
shet. ’ ’ 

“Granny Ann used to talk uv havin’ one put 
in both uv their houses, but Uncle Ed’ard wuz 
afyeard some bad luck mought happen to ’em ef 
they changed an old house f ’m the way hit were 
built. He were afyeard somebody might die.” 

“Ay, they ain’t nothin’ in that; an’ anyhow 
nobody never did live in this house an’ hit ain’t 
finished by rights ; the door shetter never wuz 
87 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


hung; hit^s jist a-settin^ in the house ag’in’ the 
wall. ^ ^ 

‘‘That house were built fer their boy John 
(him an’ Mary Betts was talkin’) ; an’ he died 
before they got married; Orleny was tellin’ me 
’bout hit the day we went sangin’.” 

“Well, now,” said Gran, “that’s bad. I jist 
pyorely love the looks uv that little house. I’d 
love to fix hit up an’ put a palin’ around hit, 
so’st a body could have blossoms in the yard. 
I jist pyorely hate to pass hit, an’ hit empty.” 

“Maybe you’d better cross over an’ go t’other 
way ’round,” said the girl, with a quiet smile. 
“Hit’s a very rough, steep way, but hit’s safe, 
an’ hit mought save you feelin’ so bad.” 

“Well, I don’t reckon hit’ll be empty long. 
Jimmy was a ’lowin’ to-day that he reckoned 
he’d have to put somebody in there to look arter 
the fencin’ an’ timber on the upper end of the 
farm. He’s got a great big boundary of land, 
an’ a fine lot uv timber jist beyant that cove, an’ 
somebody’s been a-usin’ on hit. A couple uv 
big oak-trees has been stole jist this last winter. 
He knows pime blank who stole ’em — seed the 
logs goin’ down the creek — but he don’t want 
to have no trouble about ’em. He said he’d 
make a liberal otfer to somebody to tend a crap 
up thar, ef he could fin ’ the right man. ’ ’ 

The talk was beginning to sound serious, and 
the girl became absolutely still and offered no 
remark. 

Pretty sweet little Almetta, turned into fif- 
teen, had been asked to marry more than once, 
but there was something here different from 
88 


LOVE AND WISDOM 


her past experiences. She had already told Or- 
lena that Gran was different from any boy she 
had ever known, and his tender manner and 
eager face appealed strongly to her pitiful 
heart, but she did not want to marry. She had 
accepted Orlena’s promise of going to school. 
As she remained quiet Gran continued, 

‘‘He jist as good as said he’d let a man have 
the Green Holler rent free, jist fer watchin’ the 
timber an’ fencin’.” 

He paused again, but the girl still offered no 
reply. He brought his gaze from the treetops 
on the farther side of the river to her face, and 
in spite of its sober look and the downcast eyes 
he made the proposition toward which he had 
been working. 

“Say, Almetty, what would you say to you 
an’ me tendin’ a crap in the Green Holler next 
year?” 

“No, I’ll not tend no crap in the Green Hol- 
ler, ’ ’ she said, gathering the child, who had sud- 
denly dropped asleep of herself, closely in her 
arms and rising. 

“Oh, I’d tend the crap,” he said. “You 
wouldn’t have nothin’ to do but to mind Janie 
and the blossoms!” 

“Would we take Janie?” she said. 

“Why, to be shore we’d take Janie. Will ye 
go with me, Almetty?” 

‘ ‘ No, Gran. ’ ’ A sob was rising in her throat, 
her voice was husky and her eyes swimming in 

“Don’t ye like me, Almetty?” 

“Yes, I like ever ’body here,” she whispered. 

89 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘ ‘ Don ye want to talk to me ? ’ ’ He was al- 
most whispering himself. 

The tears were running down her 
cheeks and she was stanching them with the 
baby’s dress, and her tone was very pitiful. 

‘^Well, don’t you worry, Sugar; I’ll not 
pester ye. Here’s Janie’s poppet.” He 
picked up the doll and tucked it under the 
baby’s arm, saying gently, ‘‘Don’t cry, Sugar !” 


90 


VI 


IN MEMORIAM 


ELL, you’ll not git to the funeral to- 



yv day ef ye don^t hurry/ ^ said Jimmy, 
coming into the kitchen where Orlena and Al- 
metta were dishing up breakfast. The observa- 
tion was true, but, as is often the case, uncalled 
for, as the women were making all speed. 

‘^Well,^’ Orlena replied serenely, as she slid 
the fried potatoes from the skillet into a meat- 
dish, ^ ‘ there dl be plenty uv funerals ef we miss 
this one. Fetch a couple uv chairs otf the 
porch, Jimmy; breakfast is right now ready. 
Give the bell a tap er two fer Gran, sister, an^ 
then lay us up some bread.’’ 

‘ Js Gran goin’ ter the funeral, Jimmy?” she 
asked as he returned with the chairs. 

‘‘No. I don’t know what Gran’s got on his 
mind. I ’lowed of course he’d go, an’ offered 
him Beck ter ride ; but he ’lowed he wa ’n ’t no- 
ways keen about funerals, an’ said ef hit were 
the same to me, he’d ride up about his mam’s. 
Said he had a few head uv stock up there he’d 
like to see. I told him jist to suit hisself.” 

Almetta felt a twinge that she should be the 
cause of Gran’s missing the excursion, but said 
nothing, and solaced herself with Orlena ’s phil- 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


osophy that ‘‘ there 'd be plenty more funerals 
fer them who missed this one/^ 

She waited upon him in a quiet but attentive 
way at breakfast, endeavoring to leave no doubt 
in his mind of her entire friendliness. 

Orlena saw and guessed something of the sit- 
uation, but made no allusion to his plans. 

‘‘Well, Gran,^’ said Jimmy, as they pushed 
back from tha table, “you mought put Orleny’s 
saddle on the mare fer her and Almetty, an’ 
mine on Belle; an’ you kin ride Beck. Put a 
plenty uv blankets under the side-saddle. I’ll 
jist step out an’ look ’round the place a little. 
Orleny, you say Teacy Price is goin’ to be here 
to mind the place to-day? Well, she’d better 
be cornin’ on.” 

Teacy came in at that minute and helped Al- 
metta do the dishes while Orlena fed the chick- 
ens, hung a pail of morning’s milk in the well 
to cool for supper, and herself took a look about 
the place. It was never left alone, and seldom 
without some of the family. 

“Now, Teacy,” said Almetta warningly, 
“you be shore to listen good fer Emmy Jane, 
an’ take hit up the minute hit wakes up, an’ feed 
hit good, God bless hits little heart ! I hate to 
go off an’ leave hit. Hit won’t know what to 
think. I’m awful ’fyeard hit’ll cry.” 

Almetta slept with the child in the “upper 
house,” in Orlena ’s and Jimmy’s room, but kept 
her things and made her changes, “stripped,” 
as it wa« called, in the loft above. She hurried 
away to freshen up and put on the new things 
she had been preparing for the occasion; and 


IN MEMORIAM 


was on the horse-block, ready for the start, 
when Gran came leading the saddled beasts 
around. 

Her new ‘‘white-grounded’^ calico dress, with 
the black pin-stripes, had narrow bands of 
bright blue stitched around the collar and yoke 
ruffle. She wore a narrow blue ribbon sash, 
and a lacey round hat of light yellow thread and 
straw with a pink wreath around — a fragile, 
cheap little hat and dress; but taken with the 
blue of the girl’s eyes and gold of her hair, 
made a picture that Gran made no mistake in 
thinking very lovely. 

Hats, especially such as this one, were very 
scarce in the vicinity and were apt to be owned 
only by an occasional highly indulged oldest, or 
much more occasional only daughter, or some 
superior girl working out whom the family 
found it very advantageous to keep. Gran had 
made a point of being ready to start at the 
same time with the others, though in a different 
direction, both to avoid the appearance of being 
left and, as much as possible, the feeling. 

He mounted at once as the others started, and 
it was no wonder that he had half a mind to 
drop his rein and let his mule take her own way, 
when she whinnied for her work-mate and 
wanted to follow, but he tightened the rein and 
turned her head up the river. 

“I reckon none uv Jerry’s folks air goin’, or 
else they’ve a ’ready started,” said Orlena, as 
they passed the first house below. 

“I reckon some uv ’em’s went,” said Jimmy. 
“Yes, I see ’em yander, jist ahead. Some uv 
93 . 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


Tod^s folks passed down on yan side a while 
ago. ’ ^ 

reckon they’ll be several goin’, apt as 
not,” said Almetta. 

‘^I’ll inshore hit,” replied Orlena, and sure 
enough they soon began to be joined by one 
neighbor and another until when they crossed 
the river and started up Hatchet Creek, they 
were part of a cavalcade, and one of the in- 
teresting features of the trip had begun. 

Three months of busy work in the corn crop, 
following close upon the winter season, had en- 
grossed the time and strength of the people ; but 
a great many were about through ^‘laying by” 
now, all but the ‘kittle late patches” for roast- 
ing ears, and were able and glad to accept this 
opportunity for stirring out. 

The older people did not lose sight of the fact 
that the occasion was the memorializing of de- 
parted friends or acquaintances ; and they rode 
quietly along in shifting groups, dropping be- 
hind or advancing with the chances of an ever- 
varying but nearly always rough road. 

They spoke kindly of Harrison Pate, and all 
agreed that he had been a ‘‘plumb Christian- 
hearted man,” when sober. 

Little Sammy had been dead some years, but 
was remembered as “a mighty pyeart nice-ap- 
pearin’ little chap.” 

' As among all rural peoples, the weather and 
crops were discussed freely, all agreeing that 
there had been plenty of good “seasons” and 
that there was a fair promise of a fine chance of 
corn and potatoes, “several” apples and a 
94 


IN MEMORIAM 


heavy mast. It had been a good farming sea- 
son so far, and the prospect of a plentiful re- 
ward for their labors was all they asked. 

To most of the younger people, not in the im- 
mediate families of those concerned in the serv- 
ice, it was frankly an outing, though a dignified 
one. 

‘‘Orleny,’^ said Almetta, ‘‘I^m plum anxious 
ter know where the preachers’ll leave Harri- 
son.” 

‘‘What Harrison air ye talkin’ ’bout, 
Honey?” 

“Why, Harrison Pate.’^ 

“The dead man!” 

“Yes.” 

“Why, he’s buried on a laurel spur on the fur 
fork of Hatchet, an’ I ain’t hyeard no talk uv 
movin’ him.” 

“Yes, but I want ter know where the 
preachers is goin’ ter leave ’im. You know 
they leave some right slap in the middle uv 
heaven an’ t ’others that they don’t know what 
ter do with they, leave in the hands uv the 
Lord. ’ ’ 

“Well, I hyeard that Harrison talked mighty 
nice before he died, an’ give ’em all some 
mighty good counsel, an’ said he wa’n’t nary bit 
afyeard ter die.” 

“Yes, I hyeard that too, but I remember bein’ 
there one day an’ seein’ him come in drunk. 
He shot under Marthy’s feet an’ come in a pea 
uv scarin’ her to death, an’ her with a week-old 
baby, an’ hit don’t ’pear to me like hit would 
hurt to let him swinge a little.” 

95 


ALMETTA OF G AERIE VS RUN 

“ Almetty, I wouldn’t handle sich talk as that 
’bout a man, an’ him dead, an’ me dressed up 
a-goin’ ter his funeral,” said Orlena severely. 

“Well, I never meant no harm, but I won’t 
say hit no more.” 

“I’d shun a-thinkin’ hit ef I wuz you.” 

“What a body thinks takes them mighty sud- 
dent at times,” said Almetta demurely. 

“Well, Honey,” said Orlena kindly, “ always 
try to have a Christian heart to the livin’ an’ 
speak as civil of the dead as yer can make out 
to.” 

At this point Joe Bentley, with a small boy 
on behind, and his wife, with a babe in her lap 
and Jettie behind, caught up with Jimmy and 
Orlena, and the woman fell in by Orlena ’s 
side. 

“Well, Lizzie,” said Orlena after the “how- 
dys” were over, “you shore have got pretty 
young ’ns. I wuz a-noticin’ ’em as I went up 
by to Cinthy’s t’other day.” 

“Ay, they do very well,” said Lizzie, flushing 
with pleasure and beginning to pull at the baby’s 
cap and dress ; and then squeezing it up to her 
she exclaimed, “God bless hits little heart, we 
ain’t got but jist one boy on our place, but we 
think mighty high uv our gals too.” 

“I’ll inshore hit,” said Orlena, “an’ I don’t 
blame you; they air a mighty pretty passel er 
young ’ns.” 

^ ‘ I reckon they look well enough, ’ ’ said Lizzie, 
still trying to be deprecating, “but I git plum 
out o’ heart sometimes studyin’ on how we air 
a-goin’ to raise ’em an’ make anything out uv 
96 . 


IN MEMORIAM 


^em. Sometimes I almost dnither they^d all 
five been boys. ^ ’ 

^'Now would yon railly drutber to ’a’ had all 
boys 1 ^ ’ 

“Well, no; hit ’pears like they ain’t so many 
chances fer gals, but they ain’t so overly many 
fer boys neither, an’ boys is a heap nv trouble. 
My little Ans thar is more own-way ed an’ in- 
dependent right now, an’ him jist turned into 
four years old, than all five uv the gals, but hit 
’pears like me ner his pap neither can’t bear to 
contrary him airy bit. ’ ’ 

“A heap uv folks is that erway ’bout their 
boys,” said Orlena. 

“Yes, my gals is all very civil though, an’ the 
one on iDehind me here is the smartest young ’n 
ye ever seed. She can bake as good a hobby uv 
bread as any woman, an ’ take care uv the little 
ones as good as I can; an’ little Ans minds her 
better than airy other person on the place, me 
ner his pap neither.” 

“She looks smart,” encouraged Orlena. 

“Yes, an’ I believe she could take lamin’ too, 
ef she had the chanct. She can read in her 
Granny ’s Bible now. ’ ’ 

“Air ye goin’ ter school, Jettie,” asked Al- 
metta of the child. 

“Yes, I’m aimin’ ter go ef they’s a good 
teacher. ’ ’ 

“Have ye hyeard who they’ve got ter teach 
the school, Lizzie?” asked Orlena. 

“Well, I hyeard they’s a gal named Ed’ards, 
f’m over on Grassy, tryin’ fer hit. Her folks 
has been livin’ a way off yan-way som’ers, an’ 
^7 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


jist moved back to Grassy this spring. Several 
wants hit, but Joe lowed he thought they^d let 
the Edwards gal have hit like as not.’’ 
wonder whose gal she is!” 

‘‘Well, Joe said her mammy and pap wuz 
both named Ed’ards, an’ her mammy wuz a sis- 
ter to Tank. ’ ’ 

“Well, I don’t know which one hit could er 
been,” said Orlena. “They wa’n’t no gals in 
that fambly but Dovie an’ Dibbie an’ Sissy an’ 
Babe; an’ they ain’t no school teachin’ timber 
amongst none o’ them, an’ I know ’em all; they 
air nice gals though. ’ ’ 

“Well, hit ’pears like most uv the schools out 
here don’t ’mount ter nothin’ noway. I reckon 
we can git in shape to school little Ans some 
way, by the time he’s big enough to send off 
som’ers. He talks uv movin’ ter town ter 
school ’em all, but they ain’t no way fer poor 
folks ter live without Ian’, an’ they say the 
gyardens is very small in town. His brother 
Jake tried hit an’ had ter come back. I guess 
the gals will have to fare jist as I did, an’ go 
without. I studies on hit a heap, but I don’t 
see no remedy. ’ ’ 

The ten-year-old girl sitting on behind hev 
mother, resting her slim fingers lightly on the 
rim of the mother’s saddle as the mule strug- 
gled up the steepest places, had indeed all the 
appearances of intellectuality guessed at by her 
mother ; but the prospect was that this superior 
mind, while it would assist a naturally dignified 
nature in keeping to the paths of virtue, would 
probably bring her only to the height of her 


IN MEMORIAM 


mother — that of being something of a phil- 
osopher on things as they were, without the pos- 
sibility of bringing things to what they might 
be. 

When the grave point was reached, most of 
the riders hitched their beasts in the edge of the 
thicket skirting the shady side of its base and 
joined the pedestrians, who were trooping up 
the path of the foothill upon whose crest one 
of the numerous family burying-places lay. A 
few men and boys, some with girls or children 
behind them, took a more circuitous route and 
rode quite up and around the point, hitching 
their nags behind, but at no great distance from 
the graves, to the swinging limbs of the forest 
trees. Quite a space had recently been cleared 
around the graves, and the two of those for 
whom the services were being held had been 
freshly spaded into a rough symmetry and deco- 
rated with ^‘flower pots,^^ bunches of bright 
annual blossoms in cans of water. 

When the Ingolds with Almetta arrived, a few 
men relatives and friends were still arranging 
seats by rolling some conveniently fallen logs 
into place and laying the few planks to be had 
across them, so that at least the mourners and 
older persons, and some of the women with 
babies, might be comfortably seated. Many sat 
upon the ground throughout the service and 
some stood. As a good deal of moving about 
and changing of positions was allowable, all 
fared fairly comfortably. 

The widow, with one little girl at her side and 
three married daughters, each with a child in 
99 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


her lap, and Sammy’s father, who was her hus- 
band’s brother, had come and were already 
seated upon the improvised benches. The boys 
of the family and the older grandchildren were 
scattered about through the crowd. 

Sammy’s father sat near the end of a seat, and 
from time to time some old acquaintances who 
had not seen him since he left for the West 
reached a hand to him, asking in subdued voices 
after “Marthy” and the young ’ns,” or ‘‘how 
the West was usin’ him.” 

Orlena and Almetta, after greeting various 
friends and acquaintances by the way, took their 
seats on one of the planks which were filling up 
rapidly. 

No sooner were they seated than a lean brown 
hand reached out from behind and plucked 
Orlena ’s sleeve. She turned, and peering into 
the depths of a large black sunbonnet, “Why,” 
she said, ‘ ‘ ef hit ain ’t Lindy ! Why, how do ye 
come on, Lindy?” 

‘ ‘ Ay, very well, I reckon. How ’s yerself ? ’ ’ 

“Why, I’m as well as common. Is yer folks 
well?” 

“Well, they’s all a-stirrin’ at my house, but 
Suze has got a moughty sick baby. ’ ’ 

“What seems to be ailin’ hit?” 

“Well, hit’s alters been a mighty puny little 
thing. ’Pears like hit don’t take no start to 
grow, an’ now hit’s got the thrush, has had hit 
jist about what yer mought say all summer. 
She carried hit to ole Dave Angel to blow in hits 
mouth, an’ hit wuz better fer a while, but hit’s 
wus ag’in, an’ Suze is talkin’ ’bout takin’ hit to 
100 


IN MEMORIAM 


that Bentley gal over on the t’other fork; she’s 
said ter be a present kyore fer thrush.” ^ 

‘‘Yes, I’ve hyeard she was; but some way er 
’nother I never could seem ter see no benefit in 
that kind uv docterin’, an’ hit’s moughty hot ter 
be carryin’ a young ’n so fur. How’s Andy’s 
wife?” 

“Ay, she’s very shabby. She f oilers havin’ 
headaches right reg’lar, an’ nothin’ don’t do her 
no good but doctor-medicine, an’ hit’s hard to 
keep hit all the time. Hit’s costly, an’ they 
have ter go so fur fer hit. Her oldest gal mar- 
ried last week.” 

“Now did she? Who did she marry?” 

“Why, she married that oldest boy of little 
Ike’s, a moughty well-turned, civil, workin’ boy, 
an’ his folks give ’im a heifer an’ some house- 
plunder, an’ her mam give ’em a bed an’ a nice 
lot uv quilts, an’ they’ve set up fer theirselves. ” 

‘ ‘Have they now ? Whereabouts ? ’ ’ 

“Why, in a little shack on his pap’s land; an’ 
they seem moughty well satisfied. ’ ’ 

“Well, that’s the main p’int in marryin’,” 
said Orlena. 

And so in whispers and low tones the ex- 
change of information and inquiry went on, 
as the people continued arriving and finding 
places. One or two women had refreshed them- 
selves by combing their hair with their tucking 
combs and fanning with their sunbonnets. It 
was generally agreed that the weather was very 
“sweltersome.” A pleasant breeze sprang up, 

1 It is said that a posthumous person can cure thrash by- 
blowing in the child’s mouth. It is a common practice. 

101 


/ 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 

and all quieted down as the preachers took their 
places. 

A rude pulpit and bench had been erected for 
them under a large beech-tree, and the three 
ministers, with two other men to help them sing, 
took their places. The announcement had not 
been made for opening the service at a given 
time — the psychological moment being in gen- 
eral use — and so there was no snapping of 
watches, though there may have been more than 
one timepiece in the assembly! 

After a little while one of the ministers began 
a chanting — ^very low and apparently unplaced 
— but as the singer found the pitch and was 
joined by his comrades, the chanting swelled 
into one of those weird funeral hymns of the 
back woodsmen, so rich in minor chords and so 
absolutely impossible to reproduce in written 
music. After a few hymns, sung almost en- 
tirely by the men, with an occasional woman’s 
voice piping in shrilly, one of the ministers 
made a short prayer and Enoch Mackay came 
forward and read his text: ‘‘We must needs die, 
and are as water spilt on the ground,” from a 
small, thick, leather-bound Bible. 

Enoch had been a “bad man” in his younger 
days, but had been suddenly sobered, in a num- 
ber of ways, by falling from his horse one bitter 
cold day into a swollen river. As he was going 
down the third time he had hastily consecrated 
the very hypothetical “remainder of his life” to 
the service of God. Statistics have shown that 
usually the brand of religion gotten “between 
the roof and the ground” is not “lasty,” 


IN MEMORIAM 


but Enoch’s bad been. Indeed, Enoch had al- 
ways been more than less a man of his word; 
and the keeping of his pledges had wrought ill 
on more than one occasion before ; but when he 
had been rescued, rolled upon a barrel and 
toasted back to life, he not only remembered his 
hasty promise and the dire sensations which 
had caused it, but he was really a thankful, re- 
pentant sinner. 

He had learned to read a few chapters in the 
Bible (by faith, it was reputed), and had become 
thenceforward a very acceptable preacher, hav- 
ing one sermon, the important and intelligible 
part of which related to his own life and con- 
version. He delivered this discourse with 
slight variations six or eight times a year, in 
connection with any one of two or three texts, 
at memorial services or ‘^monthly meetings” 
(not always held monthly by any means). 

Many of those present were thoroughly fa- 
miliar with this discourse. There were men 
present, past middle life, who had been touched 
by it in young manhood ; but the listening part 
of the congregation paid apparently close at- 
tention for an hour. And if the experience had 
lost its first thrill in the often telling, it was 
realistic still; and the declaration that he 
‘ ‘ soused down into that water a lost sinner and 
roused up a saved man” was still convincing, 
and the spirit ’s witnessing with the simple, hon- 
est man had often made it convicting. More 
than one person present had gotten right with 
God through the old man’s ministry, Orlena 
herself being one. 


103 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


His delivery was rather free from the man- 
nerisms which marked many of his brethren. 
He did not hold his ear as he spoke and did not 
spit often. He began his sermon, after the 
usual preliminary of asking indulgence for him- 
self and of the reading of the text, with some 
personal allusions to the dead for whom the 
service was being held. 

After announcing the name and date of birth 
and death of each, he went on to speak of his 
hope for them. For Brother Harrison his hope 
was strong. He himself had been converted 
under similar circumstances to those in which 
Brother Harrison had lost his life, and Brother 
Harrison’s last gasping confession had been 
satisfactory. Little Sammy, of course, was 
safe, having been called away an innocent child. 
Enoch was no ‘‘hardshell.” 

He preached for an hour. This necessitated 
a good deal of repetition, but nothing else would 
have answered, especially for the first speaker 
of the day. 

Men much less respected than Enoch, and 
with little more to say, had been listened to for 
three hours — by relay congregations for the 
most part, it is true. 

After the sermon he sang in a quavering but 
well-sustained voice : ‘ ‘ Come and lie with me in 
the old churchyard,” and taking his seat on the 
rude slab bench gave way to Brother Philip 
Gayheart. 

Philip Gayheart was a little above medium 
height, slender and somewhat stooped, with a 
face rather dull in repose but which lighted up 
104 


IN MEMORIAM 


from time to time, as lie preached, with the fires 
of mysticism. Threadbare and collarless like 
his co-lahorers, but neat and clean, he rose from 
among them and advanced quietly. 

‘‘Brethren and sist’ren,’’ he began in an even 
tone, which though low and conversational was 
so clear that the most careless of the young peo- 
ple on the edge of the congregation heard 
plainly, “you know my manner of life an’ my 
manner uv preachin’. I don’t come to you with 
no enticin’ words uv men’s wisdom. I have 
very little I’arnin’, an’ am jist a humble, sinful 
man, not a-pretendin’ to be better than nobody 
else. But I have managed by a very hard way 
to I’arn to read the Scriptures, an’ I have read 
’em an’ studied ’em considerable an’ the Sperrit 
has led me from time to time to rise among my 
neighbors an’ frien’s an’ give ’em the benefit uv 
my studiens, an’ what light the Sperrit has shed 
into my pore, weak, sinful, an’ sinnin’ heart. 

‘‘Whitest I wuz a-settin’ here awhilest ago 
a-listenin’ to our Brother Mackay a-preachin’ 
on ‘the water spilt upon the ground’ an’ a 
thinkin’ uv Brother Harrison and little Sammy 
an’ all them that has passed an’ gone, whose 
vessels of life has been turned bottomside up, 
a-spillin’ the water accordin’ to the text, hit 
’peared as if a great vision come into my heart 
uv hit all bein’ dr awed up ag’in, an’ a-comin’ 
drap by drap into the great eternal ocean of 
life, an’ nary drap a missin’. An’ that fetched 
into my mind the great invitation that wuz give 
to the marriage supper uv the Lamb, where all 
wuz invited an’ had the chanct to come. 

105 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 

Brother Harrison and little Sammy, I have the 
confidence to believe, has accepted that great in- 
vitation an^ has sot down to the feast. 

‘^You know, brethren an^ sistYen, the Scrip- 
tures tells us uv how the Good Old Man give a 
marriage supper and sent his servants to ax all 
the people to come in an^ eat uv the supper an’ 
rejoice with ’em. But hit ’peared to be the 
main busy time with the whole settlement, an’ 
Hhey all begin with one accord to make excuses. ’ 
One of ’em had bought him a piece uv ground, 
an’ another one a yoke uv oxen, an’ another one 
had married a wife. 

‘‘Yes, yes, brethren! a quare lot uv excuses 
they made, along uv the land an’ the cattle an’ 
the women!” 

The speaker’s resonant tones rose, his utter- 
ance became rapid, his countenance kindled, as 
he dwelt upon the petty excuses of the careless 
and the strivings and cravings of the world 
which kept them back from the communion with 
their Lord. 

“No, no!” he cried, “they wouldn’t come! 
The servant give the word: ‘All things are now 
prepared; come, fer the supper is ready,’ 
‘ Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden,’ come, all ye hungry, cravin’, sinful, jeal- 
ous-hearted, envyin’ sinners, all things are now 
ready! Yes, brethren, all things are now pre- 
pared!” 

It was a piercing cry now, and for some mo- 
ments as he continued the utterance became so 
rapid, the reiteration so frequent, the sentences 
so broken, that all that was intelligible to the 
106 


IN MEMORIAM 


listening people was the ''voice in the wilder- 
ness^’ with its warning cry, and the uplifted, 
mystic face of the preacher as he reached this 
ecstatic climax with strained eyes, looking afar 
into the blue between the boughs of the still 
green leaves. 

But in an instant his whole voice and manner 
changed, his countenance lost the look of the 
visionary, his piercing gaze softened and his 
eyes met, with a normal consciousness, the wist- 
ful faces of his hearers as his voice dropped into 
the low, musical tone of the prelude, and he 
continued quite simply and intelligibly, " 'But 
they all began to make excuse,’ jist like a heap 
uv you ’ns is doin’ to-day, out here on this 
mountain p’int, with the graves uv them that 
has gone before all around, a-warnin’ ye that 
they is a summons cornin’ that ye can’t shun, 
whether ye goes willin’ er unwillin’, whether ye 
has a warnin’ er a lay-wayin’. The time when 
ye can set back an’ refuse invitations is a-passin’ 
fast, an’ one uv these days an’ times a voice 
is a-goin’ ter say, 'Come!’ an’ ye air a-goin’ ter 
rise an’ go. Me an’ these brethren that is here 
to-day a-counselin’ an’ a-reasonin’ with ye, 
can’t make ye answer any more than Sister 
Suze can call back Brother Harrison, ner than 
Brother Robert here can git a return whisper 
from little Sammy. ’ ’ 

Here the preacher’s voice took on the gen- 
tlest, most winning tone as he said, "Hit wuz a 
mighty good child to mind, little Sammy wuz, 
an’ quick ter answer.” 

He paused, and stepping toward the smaller 
107 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 

grave, leaned over it lightly and called softly, 
as one would waken a beloved sleeping child, 
‘ ‘ Sammy ! 0, Sammy ! ^ ^ and then louder, in lis- 

tening attitude, ‘^0 Sammy!’’ and then with a 
puzzled look he said, ^ ‘ Hit wuz sich a good chile 
ter answer,” and lifting his voice in a rising 
wail he called again and yet again, listening 
with bowed head and uplifted hand. 

Little Sammy had looked but a sleeping child, 
with a flush upon his round cheeks, when they 
had placed him in the white-lined box, after the 
short, losing struggle with croup, which takes 
such deadly toll of the children in the moun- 
tains ; but it had been years ago, the sleep was 
too deep, and the cry of the preacher reached 
only the hearts of the weeping father and 
friends. 

He turned to them and said quietly, ‘H can’t 
hear nothin’ but the least rustle uv departing 
footsteps on a furrin shore. Little Sammy has 
been called out uv the reach uv earthly voices, 
by One who is bound to be obeyed, and, brethren 
and sist’ren, they’s a call seasonin’ fer ever’ one 
uv us ! 

‘ ^ The dead all around us to-day are a-warnin ’ 
us; an’ down over these valleys, a-shinin’ over 
the good craps and plentiful provisions, is the 
smilin’ sunshine uv heaven, sayin’, ‘Come, fer 
all things are now prepared, ’ and ye are settin ’ 
here makin’ excuses. 

“An’ they’s preachers right here in these 
mountings a-tellin’ ye that they hain’t no sin, 
no sperritual death, ner no hell. 

“In face uv the Good Book’s sayin’ in one 
108 


IN MEMORIAM 


place, ‘Come, ye blessed,^ an^ in the t’other, 
‘Depart, ye cursed,’ ye air still makin’ excuses. 
Oh, my brethren an’ sist’ren, what about the 
like uv that I ’ ’ 

Again he was swinging along with mellifluous 
tones and swinging grace-notes : ‘ ‘ Open one uv 
these graves at your feet, an’ see what sin an’ 
death has done to the mortal body uv a man, an’ 
after you have a-gazed on that parable uv sper- 
ritual death, listen to the voice uv the Prince uv 
Life a-callin’, ‘Come, fer all things air now 
prepared’; an’ ef you’ve the sperrit uv a man 
in you, arise an’ come, a-washin’ away yer 
sins.” 

The sermon lasted perhaps an hour. The 
speaker, with a voice and a native genius for 
oratory, carried his audience with him into the 
realms of feeling, playing frankly and skillfully 
upon their emotions. The high wailing tones 
of his voice reached the key that many of their 
natures were built upon and drew tears from 
many an eye, while the sudden transitions to the 
easy conversational style had a fine oratorical 
effect and convinced the hearers that he, at 
least, understood himself, whether they did or 
not. The really valuable parts of his discourse 
were in these lulls between the frenzied heights. 

Philip’s doctrine contained nothing peculiar 
to himself, but was a simple acceptation of The 
Book as it is written, and his preaching was 
mainly confined to a few simple statements of 
Jesus’ life and work as he found it in the Gos- 
pels. 

He had two or three sermons which answered 
109 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


for monthly meetings or funerals, with slight 
variations. On funeral occasions the last 
words of the deceased, with the statement of 
the person’s perfect willin^ess and prepared- 
ness to go, were almost universally given, and 
from time to time some personal allusion to the 
deceased was woven into the discourse. 

Philip was followed immediately by Chillion 
Mackay, a distant relative of Enoch’s. He was 
recognized as rather a weak imitator, and be- 
lieved by many to he a hypocrite. He was 
a rambling, mournful, unedifying preacher, 
shaggy and soiled looking. His doleful ca- 
dences rose and fell rather hopelessly on the 
ears of an audience already beginning to feel 
the effects of a long service. 

His efforts to reach the ecstatic were lame. 
He had all the mannerisms peculiar to many 
of the preachers. He held one ear incessantly 
and spat often. The burden of his sermon was 
the ^‘needcessity” of taking life seriously and 
mourning much. 

“You gals an’ boys,” he said, “air seein’ 
pleasure an’ enjoyin’ life now! Hit’s mighty 
nateral ; but hit’s mighty sinful ! I used ter see 
pleasure an’ enjoy life, too, but now I’ve found 
' Jesus, I don’t enjoy life any more 1” 

The younger element to whom this was ad- 
dressed, always undependable listeners, after 
the announcement of his old, familiar text, had 
begun moving out and away, in greater num- 
bers than usual and were enjoying life and each 
other’s society, sitting about on mossy stones or 
fallen logs or grassy spots, making love rather 


IN MEMORIAM 


openly, and a few holding hands, before he had 
gotten well into his harangue. 

Almetta had found her brother Sid, and they 
were away oft up the point together, talking 
earnestly. A number of the older persons had 
stepped quietly aside from time to time, and 
even Uncle Gabriel Angel had deserted after 
Philip had finished. He and an old crony of 
his found comfortable lodging on the ground 
under the shade of an ironwood-tree, with their 
backs against a great boulder which had been 
brought thus far and left, by some creeping 
glacier in ages past. As Uncle Gabriel made a 
row of careful notches in a piece of pawpaw 
sapling with an old pocket-knife, his companion 
with equally painstaking care peeled rings about 
another and they discussed the comparative 
merits and abilities of the preachers, agreeing 
that ‘‘Philip was a master hand to preach.’’ 

“Chillion can’t hold the light fer Philip to 
preach by,” said Uncle Gabriel, putting a care- 
ful notch in the soft wood. 

“No, mate!” agreed his companion, as he 
started a new ring upon his stick, and added, 
looking away off down the hill, where a couple 
of men, just out of sight of the preachers, were 
exchanging saddles, 

“I reckon them fellows has shore swapped 
horses.” 

When Chillion had shouted and scolded him- 
self hoarse, Philip and one of the men sang: 
“There is a green hill far away without a city 
wall, ” to a charming old tune abounding in sud- 
den drops into minor chords ; and the company 
111 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


gathered back for the closing of the service. 
Philip spoke briefly but feelingly of the sorrows 
and trials of the widows and orphans and of 
the father who had been called upon to give 
up his son. He asked that all present who were 
willing to pray for them, in their loneliness and 
struggles, would signify it by coming forward 
and giving them and him the right hand of fel- 
lowship. ' Most of the women who were not pil- 
lowing more than one sleeping child, and a num- 
ber of men, went forward. 

Orlena did not weep as easily as some, but her 
eyes were misty as she joined in the general 
expression of sympathy. The widow was weep- 
ing quietly. The little girl had slipped away 
and joined her playmates but the three older 
girls were sobbing aloud. 

The congregation resumed their places, and 
Philip asked the brethren to select another 
hymn, and ‘‘opened the doors of the church,’’ 
asking all who were willing to give up their sin- 
ful “carares,” and accept the great invitation, 
to come forward during the singing. There 
was no response to this, though Almetta wanted 
to go and looked very wistful, while a number 
looked guilty and some endeavored to hide real 
concern behind forced smiles. 

After this Enoch Mackay arose and said that 
before parting for the day there was a little 
matter he thought should be brought up. 
Brother Gayheart, he said, had been going in 
and out among them for many years, preaching 
their funerals and holding monthly meetings 
from place to place ; that he had had sickness in 
112 


IN MEMORIAM 


Ms family all the spring, and had fallen behind 
some and was needing a little help to pay his 
taxes; that while he himself, as little as any 
man, believed in charging for a free gospel, and 
set as little store by these learned preachers in 
stiff collars that took money for it, still Brother 
Gayheart deserved help ; and if a couple of the 
brethren would take their hats and go among 
the people for a little collection, it would only 
be just and right. 

Philip was well liked ; his needs were known, 
and a number of small contributions were made 
and rather apologetically received by Philip. 
Enoch then made the announcement of a num- 
ber of funerals in different localities and a bap- 
tizing, and dismissed the congregation. It was 
quite into the afternoon but except for some 
small children, who had been fed pieces of gin- 
ger-cake or apples carried in small satchels by 
their mothers, no one appeared to think of din- 
ner nor be inconvenienced by the lack, and very 
few accepted the urgent invitations to near-by 
places. 

The majority of those from a distance were 
very soon on the homeward road, riding or 
‘^taking nigh cuts^’ walking, as the case might 
be; and the funeral was over for this year at 
any rate. 

One service was usually allowed sufficient for 
memorializing the dead, but they were some- 
times held oftener. All agreed that it had been 
a very pretty funeral. 

The homeward way was taken at rather a 
brisker pace and with less conversation than 
113 


ALMETTA OF GABEIEUS RUN 


the morning trip; but as Orlena’s horse with 
its double load dropped somewhat behind 
Jimmy, Lizzie Benton, their companion of the 
morning, joined them. 

‘‘I seed several couples holdin’ ban’s at the 
funeral,” Almetta remarked, after a pause. 

Yes, an’ ef ye go back in a year er two, ye’ll 
see some uv them same gals holdin ’ young ’ns — 
some with rightful daddies an’ some without; 
but hit’ll be a new crap holdin’ hands,” said 
Orlena sententiously. 

‘‘Hit’s the Lord’s truth,” said Lizzie Ben- 
ton, who was troubled about her own young 
sister, who had been one of those holding hands. 
“An’ I do wish they wuz somethin’ more fer the 
gals ter do between corn-hoein’ and fodderin’. 
A body can’t patch scraps all the time.” 

The older women continued a desultory con- 
versation, and Almetta fell silent and found 
herself watching for home across Orlena ’s 
shoulder. They were soon there now, and it 
was a very pleasant coincidence to her that 
Gran should come riding up to the block from 
the other direction as she and Orlena ap- 
proached. 

He rode quite briskly, as if in fear of being 
late, but Orlena, long familiar with every twist 
and turn and possible outlook of the road, re- 
membered the bunch of young white-oaks at the 
upper turn above the house, behind which a 
person might linger, unobserved, viewing the 
approach for some distance below the house, 
and she had her own ideas as to the opportune- 
ness of Gran’s arrival; but there was no be- 
114 


IN MEMORIAM 


trayal of her thought, either in her face or man- 
ner, as. she said heartily, ‘^Hit shore wuz,’^ when 
Almetta, sliding to the ground assisted by Gran, 
said happily ^‘how nice it was fer them all ter 
happen home together/^ 


115 


VII 


ALiMETTA^S SCHOOLING 

S CHOOL was about to begin, and Almetta 
Angel matured her plans for attending. 
Orlena said she might have the small tin pail, 
which was blessed with a tight lid, for a dinner 
bucket. She hunted up and washed a bottle for 
milk, and Gran whittled a stopper for it from 
a cob. 

Jimmy was going up to ^‘town,^’ and when 
approached by Almetta to know if he would 
bring her books, readily agreed, having a men- 
tal picture of a blue-back speller and possibly 
a nickel slate. When she calmly asked for a 
Fifth Header, a big geography, and a spelling- 
book he was aghast, and expostulated earnestly, 
not so much over the advancement of the books 
as the number and expense. Why not, he ar- 
gued, have one at a time and learn all that was 
in it before incurring the expense of others that 
one might never live to need? He had been to 
school himself, he averred, and had seen the day 
when he could spell every word in the blue-back 
speller, and he knew, ‘‘as well as he wanted to,^’ 
that one book at a time was enough. 

Jimmy really knew better than this, as he had 
taken an interest in the school himself when his 
own children were going. He had always been 
116 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


a trustee in those days, and looked out for good 
teachers. Orlena had stained a blackboard with 
oak ooze, and their children had learned to write 
and figure. One of their boys could bound and 
give the capitals of all the states, and give the 
names and dates of all the Presidents and every 
rule in the grammar. 

Almetta with unexpected firmness insisted 
upon the selection of hooks. Orlena herself 
doubted the wisdom of getting them so ad- 
vanced, hut came to her assistance by saying 
that she had promised the girl ‘‘what she 
thought she would need,’^ and if “them wuz 
them,’’ why, “Almetty was a good girl and had 
yearned them, and she was not goin’ to see her 
misput about ’em. ’ ’ 

Jimmy was somewhat a stickler for his own 
word, and being fairly caught, grumblingly 
agreed to fetch them. It was an added cause of 
ferment to him, however, when the geography 
would not go in the saddle-pockets and had to be 
carried by hand. He would have thrown it 
away once if he had not paid “good money” for 
it. 

Gran had felt an envious tug at his heart over 
these preparations of Almetta ’s, but he was a 
man now, nineteen, and tall and strong, and had 
long realized that his education, begun so 
auspiciously on the “Eoaring Fork” under 
“Miss Sally” had also ended there, so far as 
attendance upon school was concerned. 

To those lads whose forebears chose the moun- 
tain wildernesses in the days when deer and wild 
honey were plentiful. Father Time brings op- 
117 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


portunity for little else than the grappling with 
nature for a place upon the bosom of Mother 
Earth in these latter days of bacon and sor- 
ghum. 

Nearly everybody of Jimmy’s and Orlena’s 
generation had gone to school some; though a 
month or so had been the whole term for many. 
A few days even had been enough to prove to 
many a full-blooded lad or lassie that books 
in running brooks ’ ’ were of much more vital in- 
terest than book-learning. 

With a few exceptions the little learned by the 
older people had soon been lost. Some who 
now made their marks in the transference of 
deeds had long ago read in the Second, or even 
Third Eeaders, but there was nothing to read 
and no incentive, and even that meager begin- 
ning had been lost. Of those who could read, 
many could not write or tell numbers, as there 
had not been, nor yet were, appliances for writ- 
ing in most of the schools of the section. 

On the other hand, there were young folk who 
could scarcely read print at all, yet could read 
a letter in the crudest writing and answer it in 
kind. This was not scholastic learning. Most 
of these were love letters. 

Even in Gran’s and Almetta’s day four or five 
months’ close attendance under a faithful 
teacher, who had a working knowledge of the 
rudiments, and who did not dismiss the school 
upon the slightest pretext, was quite unusual; 
and the majority of the children in the far coun- 
try districts were growing up in pathetic ignor- 
ance. 


118 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


Nearly all of these rural schools were formally 
dismissed for a week or two weeks, for fodder- 
in and many of them remained informally 
dismissed for weeks. Some never resumed, as 
cold weather would set in finding the school- 
houses lacking parts or all of their heating ap- 
paratus. 

Whose affair it is to he foresighted and atten- 
tive to the windows, roofs, stoves, etc., of moun- 
tain district schools has never been generally de- 
termined. Of course a teacher could not be 
required to teach in a cold schoolhouse, but he 
could, and usually did, draw his pay for the 
weeks, sometimes months, during which the 
school was unkept and the responsibility un- 
placed. 

Grants Miss Sally, during that memorable 
term on the Eoaring Fork, had created a sensa- 
tion, not only by declining to dismiss for fodder- 
ing, but also by herself buying and putting up a 
stovepipe to the rusty old stove which had not 
been used for two years ; and during foddering- 
time and the following week, when only slender 
attendance drifted back, taught Gran and the 
few faithful ones to write and tell figures. 

Gran treasured his knowledge, reading what 
scraps came into his hands, and kept a pencil 
and a day-book’^ in his Sunday coat pocket. 
In his day-book he entered his business items, 
such as the day on which he set in to work for a 
man and the wages agreed upon ; the date of his 
own birth, with his full name, the addresses of 
friends in the army, the lines of a few old bal- 
lads, and such odd bits as seemed of enough 
119 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


importance to record. He meant, if he was ever 
the head of a house, to take the county paper. 
He once had lived at a place where it had been 
taken, and he felt the interest and added dignity 
of the custom. 

When Almetta’s preparations stirred the old 
longings. Gran merely whittled a new point on 
his pencil, wrote carefully a few more items in 
his day-book, by way of self-assurance, and dis- 
missed the matter with the further consolation, 
that ‘‘apt as not the teacher didn^t know nothin’ 
nohow. ’ ’ 

As to this Orlena had been correct in saying 
that “there was no teachin’ timber among Tank 
Ed’ards’ people”; but it was nevertheless a fact 
that Dibble’s daughter, Armilda, had secured 
the school at the mouth of Big Gabriel. 

Armilda Edwards was a rather good-looking 
girl, with the kind of manner and bearing re- 
ferred to as “ still. ’ ’ This stillness was at a pre- 
mium in young women, signifying dignity, and 
often supposed to accompany ability. 

She had been three months, one winter, to 
“town” to school, and held a second-class cer- 
tificate, which she had obtained with little trou- 
ble at the last examination before the election, 
along with some others equally unprepared. 

The county superintendent was one of those 
“children of this world, who are in their gen- 
eration wiser than the children of light, ’ ’ and he 
had been re-elected by a snug majority, receiv- 
ing the votes of Tank and his three sons, among 
those of other interested parties. 

Besides her good looks and dignity of bearing 
120 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 

and the town advantages, Armilda was a good 
dresser, in spite of the pins which so often 
frankly occupied positions which should have 
been held by buttons. More sure, however, than 
all these so manifestly suitable qualifications to 
win her a school was a certain disposition she 
had to hold one, even though the expense of ob- 
taining it would reduce her part of the ^ ^ draw ’ ^ 
to a minimum. 

She did not intend to put much into the school, 
and if what she actually came out with was little, 
‘ ‘ it was that much, ’ ^ as she said in her quiet way, 
and wisely considered that sitting out the ses- 
sion in a schoolhouse for little was better than 
sitting at home for nothing. 

So few children went to a school, and so 
little came of it, that the opening of those insti- 
tutions caused little stir in the communities ; but 
the region is so large, the districts so numerous, 
the population so dense, that those burning mid- 
summer mornings measured time for thousands 
of children who pattered their barefoot ways up 
and down the steep mountain-sides, over the 
rough beds of creeks and branches, through the 
deep sands of the river roads or along the 
smooth, hard, well-shaded, and altogether deli- 
cious by-paths to little old unfurnished school- 
houses, in many of which the spelling of mispro- 
nounced words was still the chief exercise of the 
day. 

Here and there a conscientious teacher, strong 
of intellect, kind of heart, and honest of purpose, 
ran a handicap race with the ignorance of some 
community. For his trophy, perhaps some 
121 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


leader of men was developed, who soon found 
his way out and away where leaders were 
wanted. 

All honor to those teachers, and to the very 
rare good schoolhouse, which showed the high- 
water mark of intelligence for some region ; and 
all honor truly to the fine intellects found in all 
these regions which have survived such long 
neglect of bookish things. 

There were sixty-three persons of school age 
in the Lower Gabriel Eun district. Of these, 
four were married, one was a cripple, and 
two were simple. Two were not allowed to go 
on account of minding babies, and one was mind- 
ing her granny. Two were kept at home to hunt 
the cows up, eight were working for themselves, 
and ten lived too far from the schoolhguse to 
attend. There were thirty-three without any 
excuse for not attending, besides Almetta and 
Gran, who had been enrolled in other districts. 
Gran belonged to the class of regular workers, 
but Almetta was going. 

She had no very well-defined purpose of ever 
being a teacher, (the highest ambition of most 
of those who ^‘took to books’’) ; but stirring in 
her heart was a tiny flame of ambition for better 
things, when she laid the Fifth Eeader and spell- 
ing-book side by side upon the big geography, 
and taking up the dinner pail, stepped out into 
the white light of a late summer morning. 

Already the burning hot days and cool nights, 
with a soil conducive to early maturing, were 
touching up the leaves and setting crimson sig- 
nals for approaching fall along the road among 
122 


ALMETTA’S SCHOOLING 


the sassafras, sumac and dogwood. Here and 
there in shadowy places a finger of five-leaved 
ivy glowed deep red among its dark green mates. 
Smooth yellow leaves floated down from the tall 
poplars, or crinkled brown ones from the white- 
boiled sycamores. 

In the corners of the worm fences the leafless 
yellow love-vine, with its bunches of tiny waxy 
flowers, rode its tangling, straggling way indis- 
criminately over stick-tight weeds or touch-me- 
nots, the lovely jewel-weed; and goldfinches 
were swinging on the yellow mullen stalks, find- 
ing dry seeds even among the blossoms. 

■The girl took her way happily along with no 
thought of these signs of early maturity, but 
only feeling how beautiful it all was, how glad 
she was to go to school, how good was Orlena, 
and how she hated to leave Emma Jane. She 
wondered one minute if Gran disliked her going 
to school ; another if she would ever marry him ; 
and another if by slipping ever so easily, she 
could catch a humming-bird in a trumpet-flower. 

Bill Price’s was the only house between Jim- 
my’s and the school, and Heppy was on the fence 
as Almetta came by. She was fond of this 
queer little girl and had started early on pur- 
pose to ask her to go to school. 

Little black-haired, brown-skinned, blue-eyed 
Heppy had come into the world with a short 
crooked leg. Her father had been killed before 
she was born, and the mother had died a few 
days after the tiny cripple had been laid in her 
arms. 

It was a sordid little world the child had come 
123 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


into, thus handicapped, but she had always 
seemed happy enough. She had gotten religion 
and insisted upon being baptized at the unheard- 
of age of ten years, after hearing Philip Gay- 
heart preach his great sermon on ‘^The Two 
Eoads. ’ ^ It was a wonderful sermon, full of the 
imagery of Eevelation, which the preacher took 
quite literally. 

Everybody, even Philip, had been opposed to 
the delicate little cripple being baptized so 
young, but he had gone down into the river with 
the white-faced, clinging child, and burying her 
in its limpid depths had stumbled back up the 
bank, blinded by his own tears, and handed her 
into the first arm outstretched to receive her. 

That very night her uncle and a strange man 
had come in at dark; they had been playing 
cards together in the other house when the 
woman and child went to bed and the woman to 
sleep. The next morning there was blood spat- 
tered on the floor of the other house. Her uncle 
and the strange man were gone never to return, 
and Heppy was tossing in fever and prating 
from Philip’s sermon of ‘‘the two roads and the 
angel with the flaming sword, who ’minded the 
gate, and turned many back.” 

Philip never preached the sermon again, but 
Heppy quoted broken sentences from it ever 
after, and gained the reputation of being a 
prophetess. She was not simple-minded — far 
from it — and would have gone to school but for 
her lameness. 

Almetta Angel and Hepzibah Ingold, called 
Heppy, were both descended from Flora Angel ’s 
124 


ALMETTA’S SCHOOLING 


twins, and dark, and fair like them, they had 
qualities of mind and heart brought down from 
them. Almetta paused and gave Heppy the 
bunch of blossoms she had picked, and asked her 
to go to school with her, telling her that there 
was lots of time and that the road was not very 
rough. Heppy, who was not very well, replied 
that ^ ^ There was two roads, ’ ’ and Almetta per- 
ceiving that she was in a ‘Square’’ spell, passed 
on. 

Teacy Price and her little Joe were at the 
barnyard gate, turning their cow out on the road 
to graze, as Almetta passed and asked, Ain’t 
yer goin’ ter let Joe go to school with me to-day, 
Teacy?” 

“Naw, I reckon he can’t go to-day,” said 
Teacy. ‘‘He’ll have to stay an’ help mammy 
keep the cows minded out’n the field, I reckon.” 

“Ain’t none uv the young ’ns goin’?” 

“No, I reckon not. We ain’t hardly in shape 
to send ’em,” said Teacy, as she dragged the 
rickety old gate to. 

“Well, be ready to go home with me as I go 
back, ’ ’ said Almetta politely, as she started off. 

“I reckon I couldn’t go to-day,” said Teacy. 
“You better come in a while.” 

“No, I’ll be goin’ on.” 

Almetta marched on and into the little school- 
house on the knoll under the big beeches with her 
impressive arm-full of new books ; and Pepper’s 
Mary, who had sharp eyes — also sharp tongue 
and other sharp traits — and no books at all, 
promptly sat down beside her on the rickety 
slab-seat. 


125 


ALMETTA OF GABEIEUS RUN 


Pepper Mary was neat and thrifty, and had 
a decided predilection for clean, new hooks. 
She was a natural reader and classified herself 
from year to year, according to the condition 
of the books present and the agreeahility of 
their owners. She had read in the Fourth 
Eeader two years ago and in the Third last year, 
and now she and Almetta would be together in 
her nice new Fifth. 

It proved to be a very pleasant arrangement 
for Almetta, as Pepper’s Mary, having nothing 
much to do and being thrifty, whispered the les- 
sons over in stage whispers three or four times 
daily, slipping her sharp little finger along under 
the words as she read, while Almetta held firmly 
to her side of the book, whispering after her, and 
occasionally digging her with her elbow and 
whispering sharply, ‘‘Don’t read so fast, 
Mary ! ’ ’ 

Many of the lessons were read in concert, 
making smooth sailing for everybody, and ex- 
cept for an unexpected event Almetta would 
have gone through the book learning very little. 
The spelling lessons came twice and sometimes 
three times a day, and here Almetta took her 
place according to her ability. 

For the big geography, Armilda Edwards 
calmly announced, they had no use. This 
seemed a great pity to Almetta, and she contin- 
ued for weeks to carry it back and forth with 
her. ^ She would sit turning the pages wistfully, 
looking at the pictures of cities, railroads, and 
steamboats, the products of various countries, 
and the races of men; but best and strangest 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


of all were the friendly millennial groups of ani- 
mals, reptiles and birds at the beginning of 
chapters. If the lion was not positively ‘ ‘ lying 
down with the lamb,’’ there were other group- 
ings quite as indicative of natures held in abey- 
ance. 

Almetta looked and wondered. 

One day she carried the book out to Armilda 
at recess, as she sat under the beeches, and asked 
the meaning of some of the maps and figures. 
Armilda, who was no fool at. all, and really knew 
a good deal more than she had any intention of 
trying to teach, told her that the world was 
round. 

‘^You know hit ain’t!” had been Almetta ’s 
wondering interjection. 

But Armilda read her some conclusive 
sentences from the book and explained the 
illustrations. Almetta listened and looked 
earnestly, and after a long breath, which 
was almost a sigh, of pure content, she acknowl- 
edged. 

Shore hit’s bound ter be round!” and never 
doubted more. 

That evening as she came up the path with a 
brimming bucket of milk, Almetta met Gran 
coming down. The great round moon was com- 
ing up over the ‘Gow gap” through a silhouette 
fringe of brush. They paused, and Almetta 
asked, 

‘‘Gran, did you know that old yaller moon 
was a-surroundin’ us ever’ day?” and as he only 
looked at her quietly, continued, “Did yer know 
the world wuz round?” 

127 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


Gran had heard this, but capriciously chose to 
be noncommittal. 

‘^Who said she were round 

‘^Why, Armildy Edwards said she were.’’ 

^^Has Armildy ever been around her?” 

‘‘No, she hain’t.” 

‘ ‘ W ell, sight ’s what l^ores the blind. ’ ’ 

“Well, I seed the picter, and the book said 
she were round,” she said triumphantly. 

‘ ‘ Shucks, the book mought be wrong. ’ ’ 

This was quite absurd. Who ever heard of 
a hook being wrong! She suddenly realized he 
was teasing her, and giving him a pitying look, 
she changed the pail to the other hand and pro- 
ceeded on her way, flinging back over her shoul- 
der, “You couldn’t law lamin’ onto some 
folks.” 

When Jimmy finally discovered that the book 
was not in use at school he declared it was a 
shameful waste. 

He was mistaken. Was it not worth the price 
to know the world was round ? 

There were twenty-three children coming the 
first week of school, and various interests kept 
the greater number of them faithful for two or 
three weeks ; but it had soon come to be pretty 
generally understood that the teacher was “no 
stake” either for discipline or teaching. The 
number in attendance had dropped down to ten. 
Even Almetta was contemplating stopping, 
when she walked into school one morning and 
found a strange man setting the benches in 
order, and perceived that they had a new 
teacher. 


128 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


He briefly announced that he and Armilda had 
agreed to swap schools. This was often done 
in these districts and was accepted with little 
comment. No one even asked why they had 
swapped and the Lower Gabriel Kun school cer- 
tainly lost nothing by the change. 

It was soon understood that they had a 

right’’ teacher now in Jerry Taulbee, and the 
drift set back toward the school, a number of 
children from other districts coming in. 

The pieces of the old blackboard which Orlena 
had stained with ooze years ago were gotten 
down from the loft and patched together, and 
even the physiology chart, required by law, was 
brought into some small use. 

Almetta was tactfully placed in the third 
reader, and studied her lessons with Jettie Bent- 
ley. School life became a thing of joy and in- 
terest. 

One evening Almetta came home all excite- 
ment, exclaiming, 

‘‘Orleny, you’d never guess who’s cornin’ to 
school ! ” 

‘‘Not Heppy Ingold, I reckon?” 

“No, not Heppy, not by a bushel.” 

“Well, who then?” 

“Pyorly Sid!” she said with vehement joy. 
“He hyeard what a good teacher we had, an’ 
he’s aimin’ to come all the time.” 

“Hit’s a right smart walk fer him, ain’t hit?” 

“Yes, hit’s all uv three mile, but he wuz two 
mile from the upper school, an’ we got away 
yander the best teacher. Orleny, Sid^s smart, 
a-n’ he’s pretty, too.” 


129 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘‘Yes, Sid’s a very smart, well-appearin’ 
boy.” 

“I hope him an’ the teacher gits along, but 
he used to be very independent an ’ill, when he 
was crossed airy bit. ’ ’ 

“Would he fight?” 

“Ay, man, he’d fight too,” said Almetta, set- 
tling herself on the edge of the porch, in reach 
of the great pile of beans Orlena was threading 
up to dry. “But he wuz plum tender-hearted 
when he wuz havin’ his own way, though I 
wouldn’t alters let him have hit,” she said, fill- 
ing her lap and settling to the work. 

‘ ‘ Did you fight him back ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, me an’ him fit right reg’lar.” 

‘ ‘ Did yer mammy ’low ye to fight 1 ’ ’ 

“No, but she followed goin’ off to work an’ 
leavin’ us. I remember onct we wuz a-livin’ 
’way on the head uv Clifty, an’ mam bought me 
a little hat from Bed Ike Ingold. He used to 
keep goods on the head uv the creek. I thought 
moughty high uv my little hat, an’ I ’member 
pime blank how hit looked. Hit was a little 
round straw hat, white an’ blue pieded, with a 
blue band around the crown. 

‘ ‘ Mam had hired me with hit to drink Indian 
hemp tea fer the rheumatiz that spring, when I 
had waded the creek in Feb’uary. Hit’s the 
bitterest brew they is, I reckon, but hit’ll shore 
kill rheumatiz. 

“Well, ever time Sid’ud git mad at me he’d 
threaten of tearin’ up my little hat. One day 
mam went off some’rs to work an’ Sid got mad 
at me an’ throwed hit out in the wet weeds. I 
130 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


never spoke a word ner never let on that I cared. 
I sauntered out an’ got hit an’ hung hit out uv 
his reach an’ come on out a singin’, ‘I’m goin’ 
ter jine the army, I’m goin’ ter volunteer.’ 

“Sid wuz jist a-standin’ there on the aidge 
uv mam’s hacker-patch. I made as if I wuz 
a-goin’ on by, but jist as I passed him I whirled 
and yoked him around the neck an’ we clinched. 
I wa’n’t but jist strong enough to hold him. I 
was afyeard to let him git fur ’nough away to 
draw a rock on me, so I jist belt him and squez 
him. 

“Well, sir, we wrastled all over that hacker- 
patch. We jist finaciously mint hit, an’ mam 
skinned us both when she come home; hut I 
nearly squez the life out’n him an’ made him 
quit kickin’ an’ beg before I loosed my holts. 

“He promised he’d never tech that hat ag’in 
while he trod dirt an’ wouldn’t tell mammy I 
squez him ; hut when I drapped him and looked 
at that patch, I knowed in reason they wa’n’t 
no tale to tell that ud put hit back like hit be- 
longed, an’ I didn’t like to lie nohow.” 

“An’ so yer mam whooped ye both!” 

‘ ‘ She whooped us too. ’ ’ 

“Well, ef I wuz you I’d talk to Sid an’ coun- 
sel ’im to study hard an’ try to please the 
teacher an’ do what he tells ’im first off, an’ not 
raise no argyments with ’im. He’s a good 
teacher an’ a very nice-appearin ’ man; but they 
don’t nobody seem to know nothin’ about ’im 
ner where he come from, and what you don’t 
onderstan’ you better let he. 

“Some says his name ain’t even Taulhee, hut 
131 


ALMETTA OF GABllIEL’S RUN 

hit’s what he calls hisself, an’ hit’s none uy our 
business, an’ I’d say nothin’ ’bout that neither. 
The least said the soonest mended. Has he 
ever made any pass at talkin’ to any uv you 
gals, AlmettyT’ 

‘‘No, I reckon not. Sid axed me that day at 
the funeral, when me an’ him went otf up the 
p’int, ef anybody ’d ever said anything to me 
that I didn’t like. He says as yearnest, ‘Al- 
metty, ef anybody ever bothers you, you tell me, 
an’ I’ll set in the bushes tell I shoot ’em.’ I 
scolded him fer handlin’ sich talk.” 

“That won’t do, Almetty, an’ don’t you never 
let on to him about anythin’ that bothers you, 
and counsel him to be peaceable.” 

“Speakin’ uv talkin’, Orleny, that gal. Pearl 
White, that we seed at the funeral, has started 
in to school. Did I ever tell you how mad she 
made me that day?” 

“No, I believe not.” 

“Well, you seed her an’ that chutfy, red-faced 
Sam Willis a-holdin’ hands, didn’t ye?” 

“Yes, I seed ’em.” 

“Well, I never seed the gal before, though 
I knowed the boy, an’ just ’lowed they wuz 
talkin’, f ’m the actions they wuz a-havin’.” 

“ Ondoubtedly, I reckon,” agreed Orlena. 

“Well, Sam’s horse broke loose while they 
wuz takin’ up the collection for Philip, or least- 
ways he let on hit had, an’ went an’ jerked at hit, 
an’ made hit cut up some, an’ took an’ hitched 
hit to another limb. I couldn’t see nothin’ 
wrong with the nag myself ; I come right down 
by hit, as me an’ Sid come off’n the hill jist a 
132 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


few minutes before, an’ hit wuz jist a-standin’ 
there on three legs, sorter dozin’, an’ I jist 
’lowed to myself that he wuz aimin ’ ter shun the 
collection, an’ actin’ like that old clay bank wuz 
too gaily. ’ ’ 

‘‘Apt as not,” said Orlena. 

“Well, while he wuz off tryin’ to make his 
horse cut up, that gal. Pearl, she come a-edgin’ 
up to where I wuz a-standin’ an’ says, ‘Howdy, 
Almetty,’ jest like her an’ me wuz own born 
cousins at the very least. 

“I says ‘howdy’ very civil, an’ she says, ‘I 
reckon you like hit moughty well over at Or- 
leny’s?’ Hit made me sorter mad, but I an- 
swered her still very civil, an’ told her I reck- 
oned a body could git used to anythin’, an’ then 
she says, ‘Ef I must be to ax questions, where 
is Gran! ’ an’ I told her hit wuz out uv my power 
to tell her, fer I shore didn’t know, an’ then she 
sorter laughed an’ says, ‘I reckon you an’ him 
has a good time a-talkin ’ ! ” 

Almetta gave this in spiteful imitation of the 
girl’s drawling tones, and said no more. 

After a continued pause Orlena asked, “And 
what sort uv answer did you make to that ! ’ ’ 

“Well, I never said nothin’,” she replied 
calmly, “but I jist tried to look a hole plum 
through her an’ skin her on the t’other side.” 

“Es good a way es any,” said Orlena dryly. 

The next day at dinner recess the teacher went 
otf with the older boys to where they were con- 
structing a slash dam to make a swimming-hole. 
The younger children were “trouncing” frogs 
133 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


by balancing a narrow board across a rock, put- 
ting the frog on one end and coming down 
heavily and swiftly on the other, causing the 
frog to soar aloft. 

The older girls were off up the road. They 
had eaten their dinners, and were tying knots 
in pieces of love-vine, to test their sweethearts ’ 
love, when some one proposed that they play 
‘‘Dukes a-roving.^’ 

“All right ; Almet an’ me ’ll choose the sides,” 
agreed Pepper’s Mary at once. 

The right of first choice was settled by one of 
those chance games as old as Purim and as com- 
mon as childhood. 

The girls were soon lined up in two rows of 
five girls each, facing each other and a few feet 
apart, a row of girls and a row of dukes. 

Almetta’s line stood still and silent while 
Mary’s advanced and stood before them, sing- 
ing, 

^^Here come five Dukes, a-roving, a-roving, a-roving, 

Here come five Dukes a-roving, with a heigh^o ransomtee/^ 

Then they retired and stood silent, while Al- 
metta’s line advanced and questioned them in 
song. 


^Tray, what is your good-will, sirs, good-will, sirs, good- 
will, sirs? 

Pray, what is your good-will, sirs, with a heigh^o ransom- 
tee 

^ Thus the song went on, the lines advancing, 
singing and retiring, alternately. 

Mary’s line sang next, 

134 


ALMETTA’S SCHOOLING 


^^Our ^ood-will is to marry, to marry, to marry. 

Our good-will is to marry, with a heigh^o ransomtee,” 

And were questioned, 

*‘Pray, will you have one of us, sirs, one of us, sirs, one of 
us, sirs. 

Pray will you have one of us, sirs, with a heigh’o ran- 
somtee?^^ 

And received for answer, 

‘•You are all too ragged and dirty, dirty, dirty. 

You are all too ragged and dirty, with a heigh^o ran- 
somtee/^ 

The answer to this was, 

“We^re quite as good as you, sirs, you, sirs, you, sirs. 

We are quite as good as you, sirs, with a heigh’o ran- 
somtee/^ 

% 

The Dukes were evidently convinced, and sang, 

“The fairest one that I can see is Metty, 

Come and dwell with me, dwell with me, dwell with me; 
The fairest one that I can see is Metty, 

Come and dwell with me.’’ 

One Duke had made his choice, and Mary led 
Almetta back with her as she retired. 

The song, with the singers advancing and re- 
tiring, was gone all over again and again until 
the last girl was carried off triumphantly by a 
Duke. 

They had just finished the game and were 
about to play “Green Gravel,^’ when a couple 
of men, one middle-aged and the ether young, 
135 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEVS RUN 


whom none of the girls knew, came riding up. 
They paused, and the older of them asked. 

Who is the lady that teaches the school T’ 

The girls looked at each other in silence. 

‘‘Whose gal holds the school T’ he asked. 

No reply. 

Finally Pepper ’s Mary said, ‘ ‘ They don ’t no- 
body ^s gal hold hit, ner they donT no lady teach 
hit. ’ ^ 

“Why, I thought a gal got this school to 
teach. ^ ^ 

‘ ‘ She did, but she swapped hit off. ^ ’ 

“An^ who wuz sheP’ 

“Armildy Edwards.’’ 

“Uhuh! Well, do you know where she went 
to teach P’ 

‘ ‘ Hit wuz a way otf yander som ^ers. ’ ’ 

“Uhuh! Well, she’s a little bit uv kin to me, 
an’ I had a message fer her. I thought she wuz 
still here. ’ ’ 

He looked at them in a friendly way and said, 
“Well, I hope you young ’ns has got a good 
teacher. ’ ’ 

“We have,” said Mary, “a extry good un.” 

“Sort uv an old-like gray-head man, ain’t 
he?” 

“Naw,” said Mary, and Pearl White offered, 
“He’s sorter red-headed.” 

“ Jist a chunk uv a boy?” 

“Naw.” 

“Close kin to some uv ye, I reckon?” 

“Naw, he come from ’way off,” answered 
Mary, and again Pearl White offered, “Down 
the river som’ers.” 


136 


ALMETTA’S SCHOOLING 


‘‘Well, I wist I could see Armilda,’’ lie said 
reluctantly. “I^m jist a-passin^ through, buy- 
in^ calves, but I lotted on seein^ her.^^ 

“I see they^s some moughty pretty gals in 
this neighborhood, ^ ’ said the younger man, look- 
ing straight at Almetta, who blushed and looked 
away. 

‘‘Well, they ain^t none uv ’em took you to 
raise,” said Pepper’s Mary sharply. 

“Ye hain’t, ain’t ye?” said the fellow, turning 
to her. ‘ ‘ Maybe you thought I wuz speakin ’ uv 
you ? ’ ’ 

Pearl White giggled. 

“May-bees is mighty busy,” she taunted, as 
they rode off. 

“Mary, ain’t you ashamed to be so ficety to a 
strange man that away?” chided Jettie Benton, 
after the men had ridden otf , laughing. 

“Well, he oughtn’t to ’a’ undertook to fool 
with us, ef he didn ’t want to be sassed. I reckon 
we’re ever’ bit in grain as strange to him as he 
is to us.” 

Almetta said nothing. She knew that Mary’s 
sharp tongue had been a deliverance to her. 
She felt that Mary had meant it to be, and she 
was grateful. 

The girls came into school late that afternoon, 
and nothing was said of their adventure, but as 
Almetta went home later Teacy Price came 
down to the fence and asked her, 

“Almet, did you see them two strange-lookin’ 
men go by about noon talkin’ about buyin’ 
calves ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” replied Almetta. “Who wuz they?” 

137 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


dunno who they wuz, but ’pon my honor, 
I thought I^d laugh my heart out at ^em. 
Heppy wuz out here on the fence when they rode 
up, an’ that old-like man says, ‘Sis, can ye tell 
us how to git to Allen Sizemore’s place?’ 

“Heppy, she says, ‘Yes, sir, they’s two 
roads.’ 

“ ‘Two roads?’ says he. 

“ ‘Yes, sir, they’s two roads.’ 

“ ‘Well, which one uv ’em is the best to take?’ 
says he. 

“ ‘Well, sir,’ she says, ‘one uv ’em is broad 
an’ smooth, an’ t’other is narrow an’ steep. 

“ ‘I ’low,’ he says, ‘one uv ’em is the river 
road, an’ t’other cuts acrost the hill. I ’low I’ll 
take hit. I’m a-wantin’ to see him about buyin’ 
some calves,’ he says. 

“ ‘They’s a gate-keeper on that road,’ says 
Heppy, ‘an’ he’s turnin’ some back,’ she says. 

“ ‘What’s the matter?’ says he. ‘Hain’t hit 
a public road?’ says he. 

“ ‘Yes,’ says she, ‘they’re both public roads, 
but one uv ’em is broad an’ smooth an’ leads to 
destruction, an’ t’other is narrow an’ steep an’ 
leads to everlastin’ life; and they’s a angel with 
a flamin’ syord keepin’ the gate.’ 

“Well, sir,” went on Teacy, “I wish you 
could ’a’ been behind that bush with me to a 
seed that youngest un’s face, ’pon my honor I 
do ! He cussed a big oath and sez, ‘ Let ’s git out 
er here!’ But the t’other one laughed and sez 
to Heppy, ‘I reckon you air Bill Price’s grand- 
datter. ’ 

“I know in reason, he’s hyeard tell uv Hep- 
138 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


py’s prophesyin’, but t’other one hadn’t, an’ he 
shore looked f er all the world like he had got him 
a life sentence. I could tell that Heppy didn’t 
like ’em ary grain; she shore mistrusted ’em.” 

At this Heppy broke into a wail: “He won’t 
have ’em, he won’t have ’em.” 

She seemed unusually excited, with trembling 
nerves and her blue eyes burning black. 

“Hush, Honey, that’s a good gal,” persuaded 
Teacy, but as Heppy swung rapidly around the 
house on her crutches her wail rose to a shriek. 

“Hit allers makes me feel bad,” said the 
woman, “to hear her cornin’ over that part uv 
hit. ’Pears like I allers hear uv some sort of 
devilment right arterwards. Granny Pop was 
already oneasy over a pullet’s cornin’ in the 
house this mornin’ an’ crowin’. She says hit’s 
shore to mean bad luck, and mam she knows 
hit.” 

The next week, on Monday, Jerry Taulbee ap- 
plied to Orlena for board. He gave no reason 
for changing his abode, but he had given no 
reason for anything since coming among them, 
and had withal behaved so “civilly” that none 
felt like questioning him. 

He said, when she hesitated, that he had 
concluded to give the two weeks for “fodder- 
in’,” and so would only want to stay about two 
weeks at this time. She never knew just what 
it was that pleaded a need of befriending, but 
she took him in. 

It had been announced that school would be 
dismissed next Friday week for the short vaca- 
tion. Tuesday morning he had walked to school 
139 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


with Almetta and the Price children. Wednes- 
day, at noon, Sid Angel had a fight with Chunky 
Price and left school. Almetta was deeply con- 
cerned but said nothing about it at home and 
hoped it wouldn’t be heard, especially as Sid 
had knocked Chunky Price down for saying that 
she and Jerry Taulbee were ‘^talking.” She 
had herself threatened Lizzie Price and Pearl 
White for teasing her about him. 

The Price children had tardily gotten ‘4n 
shape” to go to school, and came fitfully, and 
Lizzie and Almetta had been companions to and 
fro. On Thursday morning Jimmy had called 
to Almetta as she went out the gate, 

‘‘Almetty, you an’ Liz Price look fer the red 
heifer on the hill as you come along back this 
arternoon. Yaller said he hyeard her bell up 
on the hill yisterday an’ she hain’t been home 
fer a week.” 

Almetta did not intimate that she and Lizzie 
were not on the best of terms. She answered, 
‘‘Well, I’ll see if I can find her,” and went on. 

The hill had had a bad reputation in old times. 
It had been said that “things had happened” 
there, and that at night ‘ ‘ they wuz things to be 
seed,” and Almetta almost regretted that she 
had not resumed friendly relations with the 
Prices, though she was not really afraid. She 
and Orlena had dug “sang” on the hill that 
summer and had seen nothing alarming, but she 
preferred broad daylight for the excursion, and 
not knowing how long the search might take, got 
excused from school some time before it was 
dismissed. 


140 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


As she crossed the fence at the foot of the hill 
she heard a cow-bell tinkle. She stopped to lis- 
ten, but recognized it as belonging to the Prices ’ 
old “Pied’’ and guessed she was grazing on the 
roadside farther up. 

There was no telling where the red heifer was, 
so Almetta began mounting steadily up the steep 
hillside. Gaining the first bench, she walked a 
short distance along it and listened, then 
mounted to the second bench. She was coming 
along quietly, listening for the bell, when she 
saw a man emerging from the “rock house” on 
the ledge above. She dropped down behind a 
bush and watched him. He came down not far 
from where she crouched, and she thought he 
was going to pass her, but turning and walking 
a little way out the bench, he stepped down into 
the bushes and disappeared. 

Almetta ’s heart beat almost aloud. It was 
the stranger who had eyed her that day on the 
road and whom Pepper’s Mary had “sassed,” 
and she felt strongly that he had no business on 
the hill. She much mistrusted that he was up to 
some mischief. She was afraid to move in any 
direction, and yet afraid to stay. 

She listened a long time and then began to 
creep back by the way she came. Often she 
stopped, peered into the bushes and listened. 
Once she thought she heard the tinkle of the red 
heifer’s bell, but “not fer a yoke of cattle,” she 
told herself, “much less a heifer,” would she 
have moved an inch to go after it. “Cow-hunt- 
ing” was over for that day. 

While she waited breathless on the first ledge 
141 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


of the hill, identifying the sound of the yellow- 
hammer beating a tattoo deep in the woods, the 
Price children passed up the road. 

She wanted to call to them to wait, hut she 
knew that while their voices carried up to her 
clearly, they might not hear her at all if she 
called, so she let them pass on out of sight. 
Finally she crept down quietly and went on 
alone. 

When she got home Orlena told her that word 
had come that her sister Betty had been taken 
suddenly ill, and she had better go to her, and 
that she had arranged for Gran to take her on 
the nag. Jimmy saw no use in being in such a 
hurry, and suggested that she could take an 
early start in the cool of the morning and walk 
it against the middle of the day, and asked if she 
had found the heifer. 

she said, she had ^‘been up on the hill 
and looked and listened, but hadn’t found her,” 
but ef hit wuz all the same and Gran didn’t mind 
takin’ the trip, she’d rather start to Betty’s 
right off. 

She put her school-books carefully away in the 
clothes-shelf and rode away behind Gran. 

They had overtaken Hence Duke, a boy whom 
she had known all her life, on the head of Ga- 
briel, and she would ordinarily have had many 
questions to ask him, but she was anxious and 
troubled, somewhat for Betty, but more over the 
stranger on the hill. 

She was very quiet, turning things over in her 
mind, and wishing that Hence were not by, that 
she might have an opportunity to tell Gran 
142 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


about the two encounters. Her uneasiness was 
so vague that she did not care to speak of it to 
Hence, who had developed into a wild, reckless 
young man. 

He and Hran, who were distantly related, 
talked in a pleasant fashion, and Almetta had 
little to say when Gran put her down at Betty’s 
door and hurried away to reach home before 
dark. 

She stayed a week at Betty’s and the ‘‘mis- 
chief ” which Heppy prophesied, happened while 
she was gone. 

Teacy Price was at the gate as she passed on 
her way back, and gave her an account of the 
happening. 

“Did you hear about the teacher bein’ shotP’ 
she greeted her cheerfully. 

“Yes, I hyeard hit,” said Almetta sadly. 

Teacy eyed her keenly. 

‘ ‘ Did ye hear he had a very bad shoot f ’ ’ 

“Yes, we hyeard he was shot through in ten 
places an’ ye could see daylight through him.” 

‘ ‘ Now, did ye r ’ said Teacy. 

“Yes, an’ we hyeard you an’ Orleny fotch him 
home on the fodder sled.” 

“We did, we shore fotch him home on the fod- 
der sled, an’ Heppy ’s been carryin’ on ever 
sence, an’ mam has killed that crowin’ pullet, 
but he never had no ten shoots.” 

‘ ‘ Why, Tom ’s Bill said he had been right there 
and counted ’em hissef !” 

“Well, Tom’s Bill never come a-nigh him, ner 
nobody else but Jimmy and Orleny an’ Gran an’ 
me an’ Uncle Gabriel.” 

143 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


‘^How did you an^ Orleny happen to be by T’ 

‘‘Well, jist the day arter you left me an^ her 
started huntin^ fer the red heifer. We dowed 
we^d go down the road, about to Jimmy ^s cross 
fence, at the lower side, an’ climb the hill an’ 
come this way s ’archin’ fer her. Orleny was 
goin’ ter come back by the middle bench, an’ I 
wuz goin’ to the top uv the ridge, ef hit tuck hit, 
to find her. 

“Well, we wuz goin’ down the road, and jist 
as we come ferninst the fishin’ rock we seed 
Taulbee cornin’. The childem had jest passed 
up, an’ I told ’em ter go on to the field an’ pull 
fodder. Jerry wuz a-comin’ straight on, an’ I 
says to Orleny, ‘ He seems ter be a moughty civil 
well-turned feller,’ I says, when, ‘crack!’ come 
the noise uv a rifle-gun, an’ Jerry whirled an’ 
headed right over. 

“He fell sort uv down the bank an’ sorter be- 
hind a little small bush, an’ they wa’n’t no more 
shots. Orleny run right at onct to him, but 
I wuz so scared I wouldn’t ’a’ bled a drop 
ef I had been shot myself, an’ I couldn’t run 
fast. 

“Orleny got there an’ tuck a look at him be- 
fore I come up. She throwed up her hands and 
screeched to the top uv her voice, ‘ Stone dead ! ’ 
She sent me arter the horse and sled, an’ I brung 
’em, an’ me an’ her lifted him onto hit an’ brung 
him to the house.” 

“Where wuz he buried?” asked Almetta. 

‘ ‘ Buried ? He wa ’n ’t buried at all. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He wa ’n ’t buried 1 Why, what do ye mean? 
What did they do with him?” 

144 




“She 

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ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 


I ‘Why, nothin’. Orleny jist kept back the 
neighbors that wanted to surge in; an’ about 
eleven o ’clock er sich a matter, pap led the mules 
up around the back way to that bunch uv white- 
oaks yander, an’ Jerry stepped out the back 
way, an’ they rid off. Pap took ’im to the rail- 
road an’ the last we hyeard uv him he wuz goin’ 
yan way.” 

“Teacy Price!” exclaimed Almetta, “air ye 
tellin’ me the truth!” 

“Why, I hain’t got no call ter tell ye a lie, 
have I! Yes, mate, hit’s the truth too. When 
Orleny got to him she seed he wa’n’t dead, but 
she says, the fust word, ‘Lay still,’ she says, 
an’ then she ’zamined him an’ seed the bullet 
had jist scamped him an’ the place wa’n’t deep- 
er ’n the skin. She screeched out at the top uv 
her voice, ‘ Stone dead ! ’ jist to satisfy them that 
might be listenin’ and intrusted. You could ’a’ 
hyeard her to the chimbly rocks. 

“When I come up she told me to go an’ git the 
sled an’ not say a word to nobody, an’ she set 
down in front uv him an’ waited fer me to bring 
hit. Uv course we didn’t know how many 
mought be watchin’, ner how headlong they 
mought be, so she says to him, ‘Now you jist loll 
down an’ don’t help yerseK nary bit.’ So he 
laid still as a stone an’ I brung the sled. We 
drug him onto hit, an’ Orleny straightened ’im 
out an’ crossed his hands on his breast an’ put 
her apron over ’im. She walked by his side, 
’tween him an’ the hill, an’ we fotch ’im home 
fer a corpse. Of course we didn’t know who 
done hit ner what they done hit fer, ner how 
145 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


many wuz a-lookin^ about, ner how much risk 
they^d take to finish the job. 

‘‘Luck was with us, an’ we got him in the 
house without meetin’ a soul an’ Orleny fas- 
tened the door an’ give hit out that he wuz still 
breathing She didn’t let nobody but Jim an’ 
Uncle Gabe an’ Joe Benton an’ pap an’ me into 
the house. 

“That wuz a Friday, an’ he left that night 
with pap, an’ a Sat’d’y Orleny kept Gran in 
bed all day with wet towels on his face, an’ folks 
a-peepin’ through the winders, an’ me dyin’ 
laughin’ ever’ time I changed them cloths, an’ 
Gran a-whisperin ’, ‘Somebody’s apter’n not to 
shoot me fer this some day. ’ 

“Ever ’body thought Gran was off huntin’ a 
doctor. Sat’d’y Orleny give out that he wuz 
a-doin’ well, but not wantin’ to see nobody. On 
Sunday she ’lowed he’d rid off in the night, an’ 
folks is jest now catchin’ on an’ say, Almet, they 
hain’t a bit uv doubt that Orleny ’s well sensed,” 
she concluded. 

Almetta had not come home to stay. She had 
felt miserably guilty for having come away with- 
out telling of the man she had seen on the hill. 
It had seemed to her that the teacher’s blood 
was on her hands. She was worn out with nurs- 
ing Betty, and the relief of hearing that the 
teacher was alive made her almost faint. She 
could scarcely drag her feet the rest of the way 
home, and Orlena, coming in from milking, 
found her lying senseless on the porch floor. 

She was easily restored to consciousness, but 
fell into a low fever and tossed in her sleep and 
146 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 

talked of the strange man on the hill and the 
teacher. 

Gran was very gentle and attentive to her, 
but made no mention of his love, though he 
talked very freely of it to Orlena, and asked if 
she thought Almetta might have been caring for 
J erry Taulbee. 

said Orlena, ‘‘I think not; but Pep- 
per’s Mary was here t’other day an’ she give a 
little sketch uv the school children bein’ playin’ 
on the road an’ a couple uv strange men stop- 
pin’ to ax about the school teacher, an’ her 
a-sassin’ ’em. P’m that an’ f’m little things 
Almetty has let fall in her sleep, I believe she 
seed one uv them men on the hill the very arter- 
noon you took her to Betty’s. She left in sich a 
hurry I never had much talk with her. She 
didn’t say nothin’ to you ’bout ’em, I reckon?” 

‘‘No, we fell in with Hence Duke at the mouth 
of the creek an’ he went with us purty nigh the 
whole way. He tried to git her to talk, but 
’peared like she had little to say ’bout any- 
thin ’. ’ ’ 

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothin’ about hit, but 
I shore believe she saw one of ’em that very eve- 
nin’ while she wuz cow-huntin’. They wuz the 
very men seed that mornin’ on t’other side uv 
the ridge, an’ answered the very description 
Mary an’ the others give uv ’em, an’ they 
stopped at Prices and spoke of buyin’ calves. 

“Maybe so,” he said, and added, “I think a 
whole lot uv her, Orleny, but I ain’t a-goin’ to 
press her about hit.” 

“No, jist leave her be a while yit, though I 
147 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


ain^t got no objection to you an’ her talking ef 
she wants to, Gran. She’s moughty young, but 
she hain’t nary grain pettish, an’ I confidences 
you a heap. ’ ’ 

A few days after this Almetta began to im- 
prove, and Orlena made her a pallet on the floor 
and came and sat by her. The girl told her the 
whole story of the men who had questioned them 
and of the man on the hill. Then Orlena told 
her all that Teacy Price had told of the teacher 
and some things that Teacy did not know, which 
he had told her in confidence. 

He had no idea, he said, who the younger man 
was. He might have been any one of a number 
of young dare-devils who could be hired to shoot, 
but the older man he recognized, from the 
children’s description, as a smooth villain 
and a gambler, who was known to have done 
many evil things which could not be legally 
proved. 

He had killed a man at a card game, about 
four months before, under circumstances which 
might bring him to the gallows. He had dodged 
a trial so far, but if the case ever came up he, 
Jerry Taulbee, would be an important witness 
for the prosecution. 

Orlena went away to do the night work, and 
Gran came quietly and took her place by the side 
of the patient. 

Air ye better, Almetty?” he asked. 

‘‘Yes, I’m feelin’ all right now, only I’m 
sorter tired.” 

“I’m mighty proud ye’re mendin’,” he said. 
“I hyeard talk uv Armildy Ed’ards cornin’ 
148 


ALMETTA^S SCHOOLING 

back to finish the school after fodderin^ Will 
ye be well enough to goV^ 

‘‘Yes, Ifil be well enough, but I reckon I won’t 
never try to go to school no more.” 

“ Do ye reckon ye won ’t ? ” 

“No. Jerry Taulbee was a-lamin’ me a 
whole lot, but I reckon he knowed too much, 
maybe.” 

“He mought,” agreed Gran. 

“I reckon IVe Darned all Armildy Ed’ards 
knowed to teach me, anyhow, an’ hit’ll allers be 
a heap uv company to me to know the world is 
round ” She smiled and drew a tired sigh. 

“Yes, mate,” said Gran, cordially, “I’m glad 
she is round! Hit gives a body somethin’ to 
think about. But don ’t you try to talk ; you jist 
lay still, an’ I’ll set here by ye.” 

His brown hand lay, palm downward, on the 
porch beside hers. Almetta closed her eyes 
and, shifting her fingers a bit, they came down 
lightly on those of the boy; she did not move 
them, and soon her quiet breathing showed she 
was asleep. 


149 


vin 

THE ‘‘working’’ 

A LMETT4 recovered rapidly and was soon 
about her usual duties, her own merry, 
cheerful self, unchanged except toward Gran, 
whose quiet suit she was beginning to accept. 
She had come to love him dearly, but did not 
want to marry, preferring to have things go on 
as they were. 

Armilda Edwards did not return to finish the 
school. Like many another it remained un- 
taught, and the young people found employment 
in the harvesting of beans and corn, digging po- 
tatoes, etc., and “workings” were held from 
house to house. These were occasions when the 
neighbors were invited in to make a play of 
work. 

“They was a big frolic up at Jim Benton’s 
night before last,” reported Teacy Price, drop- 
ping into a chair in Orlena’s kitchen one morn- 
ing, where Orlena and Almetta were doing the 
breakfast dishes. 

“They’s allers some goin’s-on ’round Jim’s 
place, ain’t they? He ain’t turned a bit like his 
brother Joe.” 

“No, he ain’t civil like Joe.” 

“Jerry’s Tom came in a pea uv killin’ Hence 
Duke, they say.” 


150 


THE ‘ WORKING^^ 


‘‘Yes, an’ ef Jim and Marth don’t leave off 
them frolics, there’s goin’ to be somebody 
killed.” 

“I don’t see what’s got into them people.” 

“Well, they didn’t start out to have a frolic 
in the first place. Hit were a workin’ to begin 
with. Joe’s Liz wuz a-tellin’ me about hit yis- 
terday. I went up to the store fer a quarter’s 
wuth o’ coffee, an’ she wuz a-tellin’ me about 
hit.” 

“Wuz Lizzie there!” asked Orlena. 

“Yes, Liz were thar, but she didn’t take no 
part. They had a lot uv ’em gathered in at 
Jim’s to the stir-otf. Jim’s folks and Lige’s is ^ 
a-makin’ up their cane together, an’ they wuz 
several thar. They said they wuz a-goin’ to stir 
otf their last b’ilin’ jist about dark, an’ some o’ 
the boys let in to beggin’ Marth to let’m go fer 
Tad Ingold an’ the banjer an’ run a few sets.” 

“How did Lizzie come to be there!” asked 
Orlena. 

“Well, she’s a awful good ban’ to work with 
’lasses or anythin’ that away, an’ Marthy had 
got her to come an’ help, an’ wuz aimin’ to give 
her some uv the ’lasses. Lizzie is hatin’ hit aw- 
ful bad, bein’ thar, but she said she couldn’t 
hardly ’fuse to go, Jim an’ Joe bein’ own broth- 
ers, so she tuck the baby an’ Eettie to mind hit, 
an’ left the t ’others with Jettie an’ their granny 
an ’ went. ’ ’ 

“Well, why didn’t she take them young ’ns an’ 
come on home!” 

“Well, she says Joe had promised to come fer 
’em on the mule, an’ he wuz late, she says, an’ 
151 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


then Marth begged ^em to stay all night an’ they 
took a notion to stay, she says, an’ then the boys 
got up the dance. ’ ’ 

^‘Then,” said Orlena with angry contempt, ‘‘I 
’low they tuck out the beds and brought in the 
banjer an’ the jugs an’ the forty-fives an’ they 
all frolicked an’ fit.” 

Well, hit ’us jist about that away, I reckon, 
f’m what Lizzie said. Lizzie says she wuz 
scared slap to death, though she says they 
started out very well. The boys brung Tad an’ 
the banjer, an’ Buddy’s gals, an’ they had jist 
enough to make up a set, an’ she says they had 
run two er three very civil sets, an ’ wuz a-gettin ’ 
along mighty nice, tell Hence an’ Jerry’s Tom 
come. They wuz both drinkin ’ some, but not to 
say drunk; but Lizzie says she could tell they 
had more licker with them, hid out som’ers; fer 
fust one, then t’other, kep’ gittin’ up an’ goin’ 
out an’ a-comin’ back. She says Hence come 
in a little funnier ever’ time, an’ Tom a little 
more solider, tell finally Hence wuz plum funny, 
an’ Tom wuz plum ill.^ 

‘‘Lizzie says they wuz all gittin’ sorter scared 
an’ most uv the gals wanted to stop dancin’, but 
Buddy’s gals wanted to keep right on.” 

‘ ‘ Pime blank like ’em ! ’ ’ said Orlena. 

“Well, you know Tom’s been sparkin’ Bud- 
dy’s Sis^sy, off an’ on fer allers, an’ when Hence 
an’ Tom come she wuz dancin’ with Jim’s little 
Johnny. He’s jist a little chunk uv a boy, an’ 
wuz jist dancin’ to make out the set. He offered 

1 Tempered. 


152 


THE ^^WORKING’’ 


to give up his place to Tom, but Tom ^lowed he 
didnT care to dance, an’ Johnny kept right on. 

‘‘Hence didn’t dance neither, tell he got plum 
drunk ; then he tuck a notion to dance with Sissy 
an’ tuck her away from Johnny. Tom had 
stepped out, an’ when he come back Tad had jist 
called the figger, ‘Ladies to the center an’ gents 
all around,’ an’ Hence wuz right ferninst Tom 
with his arms around Sissy, an’ as close to him 
as I am to you — the way Lizzie wuz tellin’ hit. 
She says she seed Tom put his hand in his coat 
pocket, but she never drawed the first idy of him 
havin’ a pistol tell all in a flash he had drawed 
an’ shot. Jim was standin’ right by ’im an’ 
he knocked up his arm, an’ the bullet went right 
in the beam over Hence ’s head. Lizzie says 
they had the masterest cuttin’s up fer a while 
you ever seed, but some uv the men grabbed Tom 
and tuck his pistol an’ they jist belt him an’ let 
’im rave, an’ some uv t’other fellows belt 
H^ence. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ W ell, did Hence shoot ? ” 

“No, they didn’t have but jist one pistol be- 
twixt ’em, an’ she wuz Hence ’s, but Tom wuz 
carryin’ her; she wuz jist a little small thirty- 
two. But she stopped the frolic. 

“Lizzie says the boys had drunk up all their 
licker before the trouble begun, so they got 
plum sober that night an’ went off the next 
mornin’ apparently the best uv friends. Said 
they didn’t have a thing ag’inst one another, 
Lizzie said.” 

“Will they do anything to Tom!” asked Al- 
metta. 


153 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘^Well, they could git hm fer lettin’ ’er otf 
in the house, an^ fer shootin^ at Hence, uv 
course, ef anybody had a mind to give him 
trouble over hit; but Jim an^ them dowed hit 
were jist a little racket amongst friends; an’ 
they ain’t aimin’ to give him no trouble; that 
wuz the talk when Lizzie left.” 

‘‘Tom wuz havin’ moughty friendly actions 
when he drawed that pistol an’ shot at Hence, 
now, weren’t he?” said Orlena. 

“Well, they ’lowed he wuz drunk an’ didn’t 
rightly know what he wuz a-doin’, an’ he said 
yistidy mornin’ so Lizzie says, that he wouldn’t 
’a’ done hit fer any amount; an’ he cried an’ 
said he loved Hence as well as airy brother he 
had an’ him an’ Hence went off together well 
satisfied, Lizzie says.” 

“Takin’ the pistol with ’em, I reckon?” 

“Lizzie never said whether they did er not, 
but I ’low they did, apt as not. Lizzie said 
Lige wuz havin’ some talk uv gittin’ out a 
war’nt fer Tom fer carryin’ concealed weepins. 
You know he never has been so overly friendly 
to none o’ them people sence they fell out over 
the timber that time, an’ he was moughty mad 
about him shootin’ around his wife an’ 
young ’ns; but none uv ’em could pime blank 
say they seed Tom onconceal the pistol, an’ I 
reckon nothin’ will come of hit.” 

“Ef they’d change that fool law ag’in’ con- 
cealed weepins, an’ turn hit ag’in onconcealed 
weepins,” said Orlena, “hit might be some ben- 
efit. Nobody never does see anybody onconceal 
’em!” 


154 


THE ^^WORKIN&^ 

‘‘Wuz they several at the stir-off, TeacyT’ 
asked Almetta. 

‘‘Yes, Lizzie said they wuz several.’’ 

“Why didn’t we raise no cane this year, Or- 
leny, and have ns a stir-off ? ’ ’ 

“Well, we’ve jist had so mnch cane ’lasses 
we air sorter burnt out on ’em this year; an’ 
then, too, I’m sorter dependin’ on Jerry’s folks 
payin’ back what we let ’em have last year. Ef 
they does, hit’l jist about do us. Fresh m ’lasses 
is moughty good with plenty uv butter an’ hot 
bread, an’ they air very good to sweeten dried 
apples an’ gingerbread; but I don’t depend on 
’em fur no other kind of sweetnin’; an’ Jimmy 
hardly ever teches ’em.” 

“We’ll go to Jerry’s stir-off,” said Almetta. 
“I jest love to strip cane an’ feed the mill 
an’ ride the horse around the press but I 
hain’t cared nothin’ ’bout eatin’ the warm 
foam sence hit made me sick onct. Orleny, 
why don’t we have us some kind uv a workin’ 
here?” 

“Well, Jimmy’s been talkin’ fer a long time 
uv havin’ a barn raised. He’s had the wind- 
works laid fer two er three years, an’ he’s had 
the boards rived fer the roof ever sence last 
summer. They’s a plenty uv pole timber grow- 
in’ handy, an’ he is actually needin’ a new 
barn. ’ ’ 

“Why, shore he’s needin’ a new barn; an’ 
they’s a whole passel uv beans needin’ threadin’ 
up fer the women an’ gals to work on.” 

“No, we ain’t got so overly many beans, not 
more’n we can handy do ourselves, but I mought 
156 


ALMETTA OF G AERIE VS RUN 


scrap up enough fer a little stringin’ fer the 
women; an’ you an’ the gals could quilt your 
diamond tc^, ef you ’d a mind to. ’ ’ 

‘‘That would be all sorts uv a workin’,” said 
Teacy Price. 

“Let’s have hit, Orleny; let’s have hit right 
off!” begged Almetta. 

“Well, we’ll see what Jimmy says about hit.” 

“Jimmy was agreeable to the plan, being 
really in need of the barn, and he and Gran cut 
and hauled in the small round logs with which to 
build the walls. 

Almetta made a trip to the store for quilt- 
lining and padding and nails and sugar, and in- 
vited Joe’s folks and other neighbors. 

Jimmy and Gran laid the foundation stones 
for the new barn, which was to consist of two 
large log-pens for the stalls, with a hallway be- 
tween and a roof over all. Many houses as 
well as barns were built on this plan, which has 
much in its favor. 

The women folks, ably assisted by Teacy 
Price, tidied up the “houses,” scrubbing the 
floors with sand from the river, and swept the 
yards until only the most persistent tufts of 
grass kept their hold on the earth. Almetta 
notched papers in intricate designs for the dish 
and clothes shelves and made “flower pots” 
(bouquets) for “fireboards” (mantels) and 
tables. 

By seven o ’clock on the appointed day the men 
were working on the barn, in two squads, with 
four notchers to the squad, and the boys were 
carrying the poles. There was cousidcrable ri- 
156 


THE ^ WORKING'' 


valry between the two groups as to which laid 
up the rounds the faster, and some among the 
notchers as to which man ‘^kept his corner up^’ 
best. 

Grran was the youngest man in charge of a 
corner, but only Bill Price, who was acknowl- 
edged to be the champion notcher of the whole 
region, kept a bit ahead of him; and it was 
agreed quietly, on the side, that ‘ ‘ Gran’s mought 
actually be a little grain the squarest, plumbest 
corner. ’ ’ 

Uncle Gabriel Angel was a master hand with 
a broad-ax, and he and Jimmy squared the wall 
plates, skilfully hewing into shape the long logs ^ 
which would go at the top of the walls the full 
length of the two pens and the hall, “tying” the 
whole together. 

At the house the girls were swinging their 
quilting frames from the beams of the lower 
house, while the women had established them- 
selves on the porch in front of the upper house, 
stringing and threading the beans on long, 
coarse threads to dry. 

It was a “working” in simple truth, but a 
very social one, and conversation, seasoned with 
teasing and laughter, flowed on unchecked. Or- 
lena, Almetta and Teacy were dividing their 
time between the kitchen, where preparation for 
dinner was going on, and the groups of women 
and girls. 

“Orleny, air ye aimin’ to mix the fall beans 
with these here Gittle greasies’!” asked one of 
the women. 

‘ ‘ Noj Viny brought me them little greasies yi^- 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL S RUN 


tiddy, an^ I jist put ’em in on top uv the fall 
beans. They weren’t but a few in the sack an’ 
I jist left ’em. She wuz in sort uv a hurry to 
git back. She hyeard we wuz goin’ to have a 
little workin’, she said, an’ ’lowed she’d bring 
me some beans. She had to come as fur as the 
store, anyhow, she said.” 

‘‘Viny don’t leave home fer long at a time 
sence that child got burnt up, winter ’fore last, 
does she ? ’ ’ asked another. 

^‘No, an’ I feel moughty sorry fer her. 
’Pears like she don’t git over hit a-tall.” 

‘ ‘ She ’s a moughty honest good woman, Viny 
is.” 

‘‘Yes, she shore it. She’s been payin’ me, 
by littles, in truck uv one kind an’ another fer 
linsey I let her have last winter fer the chil- 
dern’s wear. That un that got burnt up, you 
know, wuz wearin’ an’ outin’ dress, an’ hit’s 
moughty easy catched afire.” 

“Yes, a heap o’ people is missing hit moughty 
bad a-sellin’ their sheep. I’d ruther, two to 
one, wear linsey as outin’ fer winter. Hit’s 
the warmest an’ the lastiest too.” 

“Why, shore, one good linsey undercoat will 
outwear five or six outin’ ones, an’ when hit’s 
plum wore out acrost the knees ye can fin’ 
enough in the tail uv hit to make a young ’un a 
coat,” declared a thrifty-looking middle-aged 
woman. 

‘ ‘ Outin’ ain ’t so costly to buy, but hit !s mighty 
dear when a little one gits burnt up jist trying 
to keep warm.” 

“Hit’s dear, too.” 


THE ‘ WORKING'^ 


‘ ‘ Did ye have several beans this fall, Orleny ? ’ ’ 
asked Peter’s Snze. 

‘‘Yes, I’ve got several dried an’ some pickled 
in brine.” 

“Mar thy Lewis is a-threadin’ all uv hern. 
Hit’s a sight the stuff that gal puts away ever’ 
winter fer jist herself an’ Johnny an’ them two 
childern.” 

“Marthy’s bound they sha’n’t starve.” 

“Yes, I laugh to myself about hit a heap o’ 
times. I wuz at her pa’s when Johnny sent Jim 
Benton to ax fer her. The old man jist stormed 
around, but Marthy told him he’d as well to 
give her up to Johnny when she wuz bein’ axed 
fer, an’ save his name fer havin’ his own way.” 

“I reckon Marthy gits her own-wayedness 
from her pap.” 

“Shore, she gits hit from him.” 

“Well, the old man ’lowed they’d starve, an’ 
‘he’d be jiggered,’ he sez, ‘ef he’d let ’em come 
back on him with a passel o’ young ’ns.’ 
Them wuz the very words he spoke, but he give 
in, when he had a bound to, an’ then he turned 
in an’ had Maria to give ’em a big infair supper 
an’ acted fer all the world like he’d got hit all 
up hisself.” 

“He’s awful quare turned anyhow.” 

“Yes, one minute he’ll be so ill-natured they’s 
no standin’ ’im a-tall; an’ then he’ll whiff 
around an’ be the best fellow ever wuz.” 

“Yes, but his ill-nature is more dependable 
than his good^nature. ” 

“Hit’s shore to be that away too.” 

“Granny Pop, how does Heppy seem to be 
159 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


havin^ her health nowV’ asked Jerry’s Susan, 
reaching for a fresh supply of beans and chang- 
ing the subject. 

‘ ‘ Aye, Heppy ’s very shabby most uv the time. 
Hit kills her stone dead that she can’t go to the 
field with the t’other young ’ns; but she does 
odd jobs around the house an’ gits along what 
you mought say very well, when they ain’t no 
disturbment of no kind dost about.” 

“An’ then does she prophesy?” 

“Well, some calls hit that. She goes on a 
quare lot. ’ ’ 

“Do you think she had a vision, Granny?” 

“Well, I dunno. Sometimes I think she did, 
an’ then ag’in I think she didn’t.” 

“Well,” said Jerry’s Susan, a fair, plump, 
sweet-faced woman, “I know a heap uv folks 
don’t believe in visions a-tall but fer my part I 
a little believe in ’em. Don ’t you, Orleny ? ’ ’ 

“Well, I don’t know, I hain’t never had none 
myself.” 

“Well, I hain’t neither, fer that matter, but I 
don’t ’low to miss the warnin’s an’ encourage- 
ments uv other folks ’s.” 

“Well,” said Orlena, “the nighest I ever 
come to believin’ in one wuz when ’Lizabeth’s 
little Alifair died. You remember hit died 
about a week arter hit’s granny died. Her an’ 
her granny had allers been mighty big pardners 
an’ hit had laid (slept) with the old woman ever 
sence hit wuz weaned. Well, jist a few minutes 
before hit died, hit opened hit’s eyes an’ smiled, 
an’ retched out hit’s little arms an’ says, ‘Open 
the winder, mammy, an’ le’ me go to granny^’ 


THE ^^WOEKIN&' 


an’ I says, ^Do you see yer granny, Honey?’ an 
she says, ‘Yes, she’s a-standin’ out there by the 
lily bush.’ Then she fell back an’ shet her eyes 
an’ in a few minutes she stopped breathin’. 
There never had been a winder in the house, an’ 
I jist reasoned hit mought ’a’ been the winder 
uv heaven she seed.” 

“I ain’t a doubt uv hit,” said Susan rever- 
ently, “an’ hit ain’t a grain onreasonable to me 
that the Lord lets children an folks without 
lamin’ have a little extry encouragements. He 
knows we’ve got a plenty of discouragements.” 
“Hit’s shore to be the fact,” said one. 
“Yes,” pursued Susan. “Now there’s my 
Testament, with ever ’thin’ a body needs to know 
writ out in hit, an’ I can’t read a word, nary 
word! I’ve had all the childern’s births set 
down in hit, an’ sometimes when I can’t sleep 
good I puts hit under my piller an’ hit ’pears 
like hit eases me some. ’ ’ 

“I shore believe hit’ll do more good than put- 
tin’ an ax under the bed to cut off pain.” 

“I’ll inshore hit, though I’ve seed the other 
tried many uv a time. ’ ’ 

“Well, I don’t believe in puttin’ too much 
trust in no kind uv a sign, ’ ’ said Susan, ‘ ‘ though 
I’ll grant some uv ’em seems to work very reg- 
’lar; but visions is different; an’ Heppy has set 
me to thinkin’ profitable thoughts many uv a 
time; an’ when she gits to talkin’ an’ cornin’ 
over that part about, ‘He’s been a- turnin’ some 
back to-day; He won’t have ’em,’ I’m powerful 
oneasy untell I hear who’s dead an’ powerful 
glad when hit’s strangers. 

m 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL'S RUN 


‘‘I reckon strangers hates bad luck as bad 
as anybody, but they don^t lay on your mind so 
hard.’^ ^ 

^^Orleny, do you know where the scissors is 
atr’ asked Almetta, breaking in on the talk of 
the women. 

‘^They’re on top uv the do ’es-sbelf , I think, 
but youdl need to go to the barn an’ borry some 
uv the men’s pocket-knives. You’ll need two 
or three to cut threads with.” 

‘^Eettie,” said Almetta, to Jettie Bentley’s 
younger sister, on returning to the room, ‘‘won’t 
you step out to the barn an ax some uv the men 
to lend us their knives? That’s a good girl.” 

‘ ‘ Tell ’em they can bite oft their chaws, ’ ’ said 
Pepper’s Mary. 

“You can tell ’em that yerself,” said Rettie; 
“I’ll not.” 

‘ ‘ All right then, shape up your little manners 
an’ go an’ ax Sid Angel fer his’n ; he don’t chaw 
terbaccer nohow, an’ he’s the purtiest boy out 
there,” said Mary maliciously. 

“Now, I’ll not go at all,” declared Rettie. 

“Now, Mary, see what ye git fer bein’ smart,” 
laughed Almetta. 

“I’ll go,” said Jettie. 

“Whose did ye git?” asked Mary upon her 
return. 

“Pap’s an’ Uncle Gabe’s,” she replied, calm 
in the consciousness that even Mary could make 
nothing out of this. By this time the girls were 
busily engaged, searching the quilts for familiar 
pieces. 

“Here’s some like Metty’s white dress she 
162 


THE ^^WORKINGf’^ 


wore to the fun’ral/^ said one, ‘‘an^ here’s a 
whole square in the top row nv jist them two 
colors.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Almetta, “I made that square to 
remember the day by, an’ here’s one I wore at 
monthly meetin’ over on Dusty last fall. Me 
an’ Granny Ann’s Alifair went together, an’ 
here’s some uv hers. I brung the scraps with 
me when I come down here. ’ ’ 

“Here’s a piece uv the dress Orleny’s got on 
now, an’ a piece uv yours, Mary.” 

“This is a pretty square, but I don’t know 
nobody ’round here that’s got airy dress like the 
pieces.” 

“No, Marthy Lewis give me them pieces. 
Her sister had sent her a big bunch from over on 
Eed Bird, an’ she give me enough to make that 
square to remember her by. A whole lot uv the 
squares is pieced uv jist two colors, an’ nearly 
all uv ’em is to put me in mind uv somebody.” 

“The linin’s very pretty, Almetty. Do you 
reckon hit won’t run?” 

“No, I’ll inshore hit not to run, an’ hit’s plum 
lasty, too, ’ ’ said Mary Betts. ‘ ‘ Mammy got her 
an apron off ’n that very bolt o’ goods in corn- 
plantin’ time; an’ she biles hit moughty nigh 
ever’ week; an’ the color is as bright as hit ever 
wuz. You got hit at Joe’s, didn’t ye, Al- 
metty?” 

“Yes, I went up there Monday an’ got hit.” 

“Well, I thought I knowed the piece. He 
brought hit on last summer.” 

“Jettie, when is your pappy goin’ to have 
any new goods in?” asked Buddy’s Sissy. 

163 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL'S RUN 

“Why, he^s expectin’ on gittin’ in a wagin- 
load in a week er two, I hyeard him say. ” 

‘ ‘ I wonder ef he ’s brought on any snow-white 
goods?” 

“I never hyeard him say, but I don’t ’low he 
did.” 

“Well, I wisht somebody ’d bring on some. 
I’m dead on my feet fer a snow-white dress. 
I’m aimin’ ter have me one off’n a blue an’ 
white checkered piece Sim Duke brought on. 
Hit’s moughty fur to go, but it’d pay ye to see 
Sim’s goods.” 

“Pappy’s goin’ to bring us a organ when he 
goes fer the goods,” said Jettie. 

“I believe I could play on her,” said Sissy. 
“I never had a grain of trouble larnin’ to sew 
on the sewin ’-machine. ’ ’ 

“That’s just fool talk!” scoffed Pepper’s 
Mary. “They ain’t no tunes in a sewin ’-ma- 
chine. Hit’s jist a dead-level chug, chug, chug, 
an’ runnin’ her ain’t play; hit’s pyore work. 
But an organ, that’s differnt. She’s got tunes 
in her, an’ that little blind gal of little Gabe’s 
can set an’ draw ’em out uv her by the hour. 
She can play ‘Heavenly Sunlight’ an’ ‘Set my 
feet on higher ground,’ an’ any amount uv bal- 
lets an’ ditties.” 

“Sich as ‘Devilish Mary?’ ” asked Sissy. 

“Yes, or ‘Devilish Sissy,’ airy one,” said 
Mary calmly. “Almetty,” she continued, “you 
can remember all uv us that’s here ♦ to-day by 
this nice quiltin’ we’re doin’, an’ when you see 
them fine, long, robustious stitches on yon side, 
you’ll say, ‘Pore oP Sissy; I remember jist as 
164 


THE ^ WORKING^’ 


well as I want to the day she set in Orleny’s 
lower house an’ put ’em in.’ ” 

‘‘Yes,” said Sissy, “an’ while she’s cryin’ 
oyer me she’ll say, ‘Pore ol’ Mary, I can’t git 
hit out o’ my mind the way the cat looked 
jumpin’ through her stitches, that very same 
day.’ ” 

“Well, speakin’ uv cats,” said Mary quickly, 
‘ ‘ puts me in mind that they hain ’t but one railly 
important thing about this quilt.” 

“What’s that, Mary?” 

“Why, when we git hit done we’ll toss the 
cat in hit ; an’ whose ever shoulder hit jumps out 
over we’ll wrap her up in the quilt; an’ she’ll be 
the fust one married.” 

“Here, gals,” said Sissy, with a great show 
of industry, ignoring the fact that she had two 
husbands already, “give me more room. I can 
make bigger stitches than these ef they’s any 
call fer ’em.” 

“C’n ye make them any more scragglin’?” 
asked Mary. 

Ordinarily the quilt would not have been fin- 
ished in the day; but the suggestion of tossing 
the cat was quite a spur to the quilters, and when 
Almetta came to say dinner was ready the girls 
said they would quilt right on till the men and 
women were through. 

It was an unusually large crowd for a 
“workin’,” and dinner was taken in a number’ 
of relays, the men first. Jimmy insisted upon 
waiting himself, but there were only four or 
five men of his age and older, and the younger 
men would not hear to it; and so he sat down 
165 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


among his neighbors, and when the last chair 
had scraped upon the bare floor, and all was 
still, he nodded at Glabriel Angel for the bless- 
ing, and said, ‘^Go on. Uncle Gabriel.’’ 

Table manners are nowhere observed more 
decorously than by the people of the mountains, 
and the meal proceeded in a most orderly way. 
Jimmy had an eye for the whole table, and in 
a quiet way urged replenishing for all. 

Orlena and Almetta and Pepper’s Mary, 
passed coffee, sweet milk, ‘‘sour” milk, fried 
chicken, chicken and dumplings, potatoes, corn, 
beans, bowls of snowy white butter, honey, 
apple-pie, and pound-cake; while Teacy kept a 
supply of hot bread ready. The men for the 
most part ate quietly, and soon gave way to the 
next instalment. 

These were somewhat more talkative. In- 
deed the formalities of the occasion, strictly ob- 
served by the first table, when the older men 
assembled, and the blessing was asked, and the 
dishes first partaken of, soon gave way before 
the genial spirit of the occasion, and by the time 
the rest of the grown folks and most of the boys 
had been served there was no formality what- 
ever. After these the girls and two or three 
left-over boys waited upon themselves in merry 
fashion. Their conversation, a running fire of 
teasing and laughter, did not flag from the time 
that Buddy’s Sissy, “making a long arm” to 
help herself, called to Sid, “Come an’ set right 
down here By me, brother, we’re waitin’ fer 
you like one hungry dog waits fer another,” 
until Chunky Price, full to repletion, pushed 
166 


THE ^ WORKING^^ 


back, declining the pie Almetta was urging upon 
him, and Pepper Mary observing which, re- 
marked, ^‘Go way, ’Lasses, you done lost yo’ 
taste!” 

There had not been a great many beans to 
string, and the women were through their work. 
Some of them helped Orlena with the dishes, and 
the rest lent their presence to the encourage- 
ment of the bam-raising. Almetta was excused 
from further service in the kitchen, and she and 
the girls, after a visit at the barn, gathered 
again about the quilt. 

Let’s tell tales,” said Almetta, when they 
were all settled. 

‘‘Well, let’s do. Who’ll begin f” 

“What kind uv tales?” 

“Oh, jist common tales.” 

‘ ‘ Mary Betts knows a whole lot uv old-fash- 
ioned tales.” 

“Them’s the best kind,” said Almetta. “I 
never do git tired listening to ’em. Go on, 
Mary Betts, and tell us one.” 

“Tell that one about Jack an’ the Bull-strops, 
Mary. Now ever ’body be quiet.” 

“Well,” said Mary, “one time they wuz a old 
woman had three gals an’ jist one little boy. 
The little boy’s name wuz Jack. 

“Well, the old woman told the gals they didn’t 
have much to eat an’ she wuz willin’, ef they 
wuz, to starve Jack to death, an’ they’d be one 
less to feed, an’ they said all right; they 
wouldn’t let him have nary bite to eat. So they 
all vratched to see that he didn’t git nothin’. 

“Well, ever’ time anybody would come he’d 
167 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


ask fer somethin^ to eat; an’ they’d take him iii 
the kitchen an’ grease his mouth. When he 
come back in the house he would ask ag’in fer 
something to eat; an’ the old woman would say, 
‘Look at the grease around your mouth! you 
been eatin’ all day!’ 

“Now Jack had a little bull down in the pas- 
tur, an’ he had a little song he whistled, but he 
soon got so weak from starvin’ that he couldn’t 
whistle his little song. The little bull noticed 
hit an’ axed Jack what wuz the matter. Jack; 
told him they wuz tryin’ to starve him to death.. 
An’ he says, ‘Jack, you knock on my right horn,, 
an’ you’ll git bread an’ meat, an’ knock on my 
left horn, an’ you’ll git bread an’ cheese.’' 
Well, Jack knocked on fust one horn an’ then 
t’other, an’ he et an’ he et, an’ he got so stout he 
could whistle his little song again. 

“Well, when he got back to the house an’ the 
old woman seen him lookin’ so fat, she told the 
gals they would have to watch him ; that he wuz 
gittin’ somethin’ to eat. 

“So she set ‘One Eye’ to watch him. Well, 
One Eye watched an’ watched till her one eye 
went out, an’ she couldn’t see him git nothin’. 

“Then the old woman got ‘Two Eyes’ to 
watch him, so she went an’ watched till her two 
eyes went out; an’ she couldn’t see him git 
nothin ’. 

“Then the old woman told ‘Three Eye’ to go. 
So she went an’ watched an’ watched^ till her 
one eye went out; an’ she watched an’ watched 
till her two eyes went out; an’ she watched an’ 
watched till her three eyes went out; an’ she 
168 


THE ^WORKING’’ 


couldn’t see him git nothin’. Thar wuz the old 
woman an’ three blind gals. 

‘^The next momin’ the little hoy went down 
to the pastur. The little bull told Jack he had 
a plan; fer him to go to the house an’ tell the 
old woman he thought they ought to kill the lit- 
tle bull an’ eat him, an’ to tie a rope around his 
horns an’ git her to hold him; an’ fer Jack ter 
take a ax an’ start to knock him in the head, 
an’ make a mistake an’ knock the old woman 
in the head an’ kill her. 

“So Jack went up to the house an’ told the 
old woman he wanted to kill his pet. She wuz 
awful keen to git the bull killed. Jack tied a 
rope around his horns an’ led him up to the 
house an’ told the old woman to come out an’ 
hold him. She did, an’ Jack took the ax an’ 
made a mistake an’ killed her. Then the little 
bull said, ‘Jump on my back. Jack, an’ let’s go; 
so Jack clum on his back an’ they started. 

“When dinner-time come Jack knocked on the 
little bull’s right horn an’ got bread an’ meat 
an’ knocked on his left horn an’ got bread an’ 
cheese; an’ the bull picked grass along the 
fence-comers. When night come they done the 
same things, an’ they laid down jist up in the 
bushes to sleep. 

“They slept well that night, but the next 
mornin’ the little bull sez to Jack, ‘Jack,’ he sez, 
‘I dreamed a moughty bad dream last night.’ 
‘What did you dream?’ sez Jack. ‘Well, I 
dreamed we wuz goin’ along, an’ we met a b’ar, 
an’ me an’ the b’ar fit, an’ the b’ar killed me. 
Ef we do meet a b’ar,’ he sez, ‘you git down 
169 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


off ’n my back an’ climb a tree till we fight, en ef 
he kills me, you wait till he leaves, an ’ then git 
down an cut three strops out of my sides an’ tie 
’em ’round your waist. Cut my horns off,’ he 
sez, ^to git somethin’ to eat by, an’ go on an’ 
call yourself, Jack-in-the-bull-strops.” ’ 

^‘Well, they went on, an’ late that day they 
met a pant’er. Jack got down an’ clum a tree, 
an’ the bull an’ the pant’er fit an’ the bull killed 
the pant’er. 

‘‘That night they laid down to sleep ag’in, an’ 
the next mornin’ the bull sez, ‘Jack, I dreamed 
we met another pant’er, an’ me an’ the pant’er 
fit, an’ the pant’er killed me. Ef we do meet 
somethin’,’ he sez, ‘you git down an’ climb a 
tree, an’ ef hit kills me, you wait till hit goes 
on; an’ then you git down an’ cut three strops 
out o’ my sides an’ tie them ’round your waist; 
saw off my horns and go on, an’ call yourself 
“ Jack-in-the-bull-strops.” They travelled all 
day, an’ that evenin’ they met a b’ar. Jack got 
down an’ clum a tree, an’ the bull an the b’ar fit 
an’ the b’ar killed the bull. 

“Jack waited till the b’ar went on, an’ then 
he got down an’ cut three strops out uv the bull’s 
sides an’ tied them around his waist. He 
knocked the bull’s horns off an’ stuck ’em in his 
pockets, an’ went on and called hisself ‘Jack- 
in-the-bull-strops. ’ 

“He went on an’ on an’ arter a while he met 
a man with a gun. The man says, ‘Little boy, 
what^s your name?’ 

“ ‘ J ack-in-the-bull-strops. Gim ’me that gun, ’ 
says Jack. 


THE ^ WORKING’’ 


‘^The man says, ‘No, brother, I can’t do with- 
out my gun. ’ 

^ “ ‘Jump off my waist, one of my strops, an’ 
tie that man down tell I can git away with his 
gun,’ says Jack. 

“The strop jumped off, tied the man down, 
an’ Jack tuck his gun an’ got away with hit. 

“He went on tell he met a man with three 
dogs ; an’ the man sez, ‘What is your name, little 
boy?’ 

“ ‘ Jack-in-the-bull-strops. Gim’methemdogs,’ 
says Jack. 

“ ‘No, brother, I can’t do without my dogs,’ 
sez the man. 

“ ‘Jump off my waist, one of my strops, an’ 
tie that man dowm tell I can git his dogs an’ git 
away with ’em, ’ sez Jack. 

“The strop done so, an’ Jack went on packin’ 
his gun an’ callin’ his dogs. 

“He travelled all that night and all the next 
day, an’ he met a man with a horse, an’ the man 
sez, ‘What’s your name, little boy?’ 

“An’ he sez, ‘Jack-in-the-bull-strops; gim’me 
that horse.’ 

“ ‘No, brother,’ says the man, ‘I couldn’t do 
without my horse.’ 

“ ‘Jump off my waist, my t’other bull-strop, 
an’ tie this man down tell I git away with his 
horse,’ sez Jack. 

“The strop jumped off, tied the man down, 
an’ Jack got away with the man’s horse. 

“After that Jack went on, ridin’ his horse, 
packin’ his gun an’ callin’ his dogs.” 

There was silence as the story ended. 

171 


ALMETTA OF GABRIELES RUN 


Jack turned out to be a master feller, didn’t 
he?” said one of the girls. 

^^He shore did.” 

Hence Duke came in and insisted on helping 
with the quilting, but Buddie’s Sissy was the 
only one who offered to make room for him, and 
he had his own reason for not wanting to sit by 
her. 

He had openly flirted with and ‘‘sparked” 
her for a long time before and since her two 
unsuccessful marriages. But he had something 
very near akin to love for Almetta, whom he 
had known from childhood. Getting no en- 
couragement from her, he soon went out. A 
number of the boys came in and sat about en- 
couraging or criticising the workers, and the 
afternoon wore on past the middle when some 
one summoned all the boys to help with the long 
logs, and the girls resumed their story telling. 

“Now, Mary, tell about Jack going to seek his 
fortune.” 

“Yes, yes, tell that un.” 

“All right, set over a little Jettie, an’ give 
me a little more room. I’m about to git my 
corner done.” 

“So’m I,” said Pepper’s Mary, “but I ’low 
Almetty’s goin’ to spend the day quiltin’ on 
that one square. Hit’s pieced out uv the scraps 
f’m two uv Gran’s shirts Orleny made him in 
the spring, an’ she can’t git ’em quilted fine 
enough to suit her. We’ll never git to Joss the 
cat ef somebody don’t bring the ox-team an’ 
pull her away f’m that square.” 

Almetta, blushing hotly, joined in the gale of 
172 


THE ^^WORKING^^ 

^arnghter; she was being rather careful of that 

Mi. 

After they had laughed and teased for some 
time, some one remembered the interrupted 
story and demanded — 

‘‘Go on, Mary Betts, an’ tell how Jack went 
to seek his fortune.” 

“Well, one time Jack went to seek his for- 
tune. As he wuz goin’ along he met a gander, 
an’ the gander sez, ‘Hey, Jack, where you 
goin’f’ 

‘I’m goin’ to seek my fortune,’ says Jack. 

“‘ ‘May I go with you?’ says the gander. 

‘Yes, the more the merrier, come on.’ 

“Jack went a-whistlin’, an’ the gander went 
;a-blowin’, an’ on they went. 

“After a while they met a dog, an’ the dog 
sez, ‘Where you goin’?’ 

goin’ to seek my fortune,’ says Jack. 

“ ‘May I go with you?’ says the dog. 

“An’ Jack sez, ‘The more the merrier; come 
on.’ 

“Jack went a-whistlin’, the gander went 
a-blowin’, an’ the dog went a-harkin’, an’ on 
they went. 

“They met a ram, an’ the ram sez, ‘Where 
you goin’?’ 

“ ‘I’m goin’ to seek my fortune,’ sez Jack, 

‘ ‘ ‘ May I go with you ? ’ sez the ram. 

“ ‘Yes,’ sez Jack, ‘the more the merrier; 
come on.’ 

“Jack went a-whistlin’, the gander went 
a-blowin’, the dog went a-barkin’, an’ the ram 
went a-blatin’, an’ on they went. 

173 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘‘They met a bull, an’ the bull sez, ‘Where 
you goin’r 

“ ‘I’m goin’ to seek my fortune,’ sez Jack. 

“ ‘May I go with you!’ asked the bull. 

“ ‘Yes, the more the merrier; come on,’ sez 
Jack. 

“Jack went a- whistlin’, the gander went 
a-blowin’, the dog went a-barkin’, the ram went 
a-blatin’, an’ the bull went a-bellerin’, an’ on 
they went. 

“They met a rooster. ‘Where you goin’!’ 
sez the rooster. 

“ ‘I’m goin’ to seek my fortune,’ sez Jack. 

“ ‘May I go with you!’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ sez Jack, ‘the more the merrier ; come ^ 
on.’ 

“Jack went a-whistlin’, the gander went 
a-blowin’, the ram went a-blatin’, the dog went 
a-barkin’, the bull went a-bellerin’, the rooster 
went a-crowin’, an’ on they went. 

“They met a cat. The cat sez, ‘Where you 
goin’!’ 

“ ‘I’m goin’ to seek my fortune,’ sez Jack. 

“ ‘May I go with you!’ says the cat. 

“ ‘Yes,’ sez Jack, ‘the more the merrier; come 
on.’ 

“Jack went a-whistlin’, the gander went 
a-blowin’, the ram went a-blatin’, the dog went 
a-barkin’, the bull went a-bellerin’, the rooster 
went a-crowin’, the cat went a-mewin’, an’ on 
they went. 

“They went on to an old waste-house an’ tuck 
up to stay all night. Jack axed the dog what 
he’d have fer supper, an’ he said he’d take a 
174 


THE ^ WORKIN&^ 


little meat. ^ The cat said she^d eat with the dog, 
an’ Jack said he’d eat with ’em. 

‘‘The gander said he’d take a little com; an’ 
the rooster said he’d eat with him. 

“The sheep said he’d take a little hay, an’ 
the bull said he’d eat with him. 

“When hit come time to lay down Jack said 
he’d lay on the bed, an’ the cat said he’d lay on 
the foot uv the bed with him. The dog said 
he’d sleep over in the comer, an’ the gander 
said he’d sleep jist back under the bed, an’ the 
rooster said he’d sleep up on the j’ists. The 
bull said he had very long horns an’ he’d sleep 
jist outside the door, an’ the ram said he’d sleep 
jist inside. 

“Well, ’way ’long in the night a rogue come 
in to steal somethin’. He hunkered down on 
the h’a’th-rock an’ begun ter blow up the fire. 
The ram didn’t like that, so he butted him into 
the fireplace. The rogue crawled out an’ begin 
to blow ag’in. 

“By this time the cat flew out an’ begin to 
scratch one uv the rogue’s legs, an’ the gander 
begin to bite t’other, an’ the rooster up on the 
j’ists begin to crow, an’ the dog begin to bark, 
an’ all this time, Jack snored on. The ram 
waited a few minutes, then he stepped back a 
step or two, an’ give him another buttin’. 

“Finally the rogue got scared an’ started to 
run. Jist as he went out the door the bull 
caught him on his horns an’ tossed him back 
into the room an’ the ram butted him out ag’in. 

“Well, they kept tossin’ him back’ards an’ 
for’ards, the bull tossin’ him in an’ the ram 
175 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


buttin’ him out, tell finally he got loose an’ 
broke to run. 

‘^When he got home he told his companions 
that he’d never do no more stealin’; he told ’em 
that that night where he had went to steal there 
wuz a old woman with a wool bag, an’ ever’ time 
he ’d go to blow up the fire she ’d knock him into 
the ashes with it, an’ two more old women, he 
told ’em, had the wool cyards, cyardin’ on his 
legs, an’ a man lay over in the bed, strugglin’ 
like he wuz dyin’, an’ when he started to run, 
he sez, a man on the outside with a pitchfork 
tossed him back, an’ the old woman on the 
inside with the wool bag knocked him back 
out. 

^^Eut what scared him most uv all, he sez, 
wuz somebody up on the j’ists hollerin’, ‘Fetch 
’im h-e-e-r-e an’ I’ll e-e-t ’im! Fetch him 
h-e-e-r-e an’ I’ll e-e-t ’im!’ ” 

“Well,” said Eettie Bentley, “what about 
him bein’ more afeard uv the rooster than he 
wuz uv the bull with the long horns ? ’ ’ 

“Why, Eettie, wouldn’t you be afeard uv 
bein’ et up by somethin’?” 

“Not by no rooster,” said Eettie emphati- 
cally. 

“We’ve pretty nigh got this quilt finished 
now, gals. Eettie, honey, hadn’t you better be 
findin’ the cat?” 

“I’ve a ’ready found her, she’s right out here 
in the apple-tree takin’ her a nap uv sleep.” 

A half-hour ’s more brisk work, to the accom- 
paniment of tales and songs, and Mary Betts 
announced, ‘ ‘ This quilt is p ’intedly finished oft, 
176 


THE ^ WORKING^ 


Fly around here now, gals, an^ let^s git her out 
o’ the frames.” 

^^Almetty, where’s somethin’ to draw the 
tacks I” 

‘^Eettie, sister, git your cat.” 

It was soon a very wide-awake cat. The 
laughter and screams of the girls as they tossed 
it drew Gran, who had just come by on an er- 
rand, to the door of the lower house. He was 
just in time to see Old Tabbie take a flying leap 
over Almetta’s shoulder and disappear like a 
streak of white and yellow. In a moment her 
companions had wrapped the girl in it and were 
proclaiming, 

‘^You’ll be the fust, Almetty, you’ll be the 
fust married!” 

Gran stood on the porch and watched them 
till the laughter subsided, and said, ‘ ‘ Gals, we ’re 
jist gittin’ ready to h’ist the wall-plates onter 
the barn. You’d better come an’ see hit well 
done. ’ ’ 

‘‘Come on, gals,” said Pepper’s Mary. 
“Hit’ll jist take us to see that buildin’ finished 
right.” And they all trooped out to the barn 

lot. 

The raising and placing of the long, heavy 
wall-plates was an interesting atfair, which took 
strength and care and was accompanied by more 
or less danger, in case of something or some one 
giving way and allowing the plates to slip back 
on the skids up which they were pushed and slid- 
den into place, on top of the two side-walls. 

Amid many shouted commands and warnings 
and much straining and shoving the first one 
177 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


was shoved to the top of the skids and success- 
fully brought over the top of the wall. It was 
received and put in place by the four men, 
perched for the purpose on the transverse walls, 
and was pronounced by all to be as pretty a fit 
as they hoped to see. Its mate was finally set- 
tled on the other side, and it was short work 
to place the ^^rofters,^’ as Uncle Gabriel called 
them, and the barn-raising was through ! The 
boards for the roof eJimmy and Gran would do 
alone and at their leisure. 

The barn had been the excuse for the ‘‘work- 
ing,’^ and the men were very complacent over 
their task, and all stood around it for some time 
before parting. The girls and women were not 
behind in pronouncing it to be a ‘‘right build- 
ing,^’ and all agreed that it had been a fine 
working and a splendid day. 

The afternoon had worn almost to sundown, 
and with many cordial assurances between them- 
selves of “Now I want you to come ter see us,” 
and equally cordial assurances of meaning to 
accept, the neighbors parted. 

Granny Pop Price and Teacy were the last 
to go. Granny had lighted her pipe and stood 
for a moment on the porch, drawing steadily. 
Looking across the hills she vouchsafed, “The 
timber is yallerin ” 

“Yes, we ain’t gittin’ the barn any too soon,” 
said Orlena; “they’s a ’ready been teches uv 
frost, an’ winter’ll soon be on us.” 

“I’m afyeard so,” said the old lady. “Well, 
Teacy, I see Heppy’s raised her supper smoke, 
an’ we’d better be goin’.” 

178 


THE ^ WORKING^^ 


‘‘Good-by, Teacy,^’ called Almetta. “You 
put us in mind to have this workin^, an^ I^m 
awful proud uv hit. ’ ’ 

“Hit^s been a master workinV^ said Teacy, 
“an’ I’ll be down some time to help you bind 
the quilt.” 


179 


IX 


TEACY GOSSIPS 

F all was rapidly advancing. Frosts were 
being reported on the heads of the hollows. 
About a week after the ‘‘working’^ Almetta 
came in from the milking-place chattering her 
teeth and drawing her shoulders together. 

‘^Whee!’’ she said, setting her bucket of milk 
on the table and holding her hands out over the 
cook-stove, which was still warm from the break- 
fast fire. Hit’s cold to a body’s feet these 
momin’s out on the bare ground. I thought I 
wuz goin’ to freeze in my tracks before I got ole 
Red an’ the heifer stripped.” 

‘'Yes, hit’s plum chilly,” agreed Orlena, “an’ 
they’s plenty uv signs uv frost. I ’low they’s 
been hard frosts up on the creeks an’ the heads 
uv the hollers. ’ ’ 

“Up about Granny Ann’s an’ Betty’s an’ 
sich places, an’ over about Allen Bolin’s, where 
mammy an’ Sid an’ me lived last,” said Al- 
metta, “an’ don’t you reckon them little sugar- 
trees at mammy’s grave is red as blood now, 
Orleny?” 

“I wouldn’t wonder.” 

“I’d shore love to see hit before the leaves 
falls. I could walk an’ go ef you’d let me.” 

180 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


^^Well, f(m can go one uv these days before 
long. We ^11 dig the sweet taters, in two or three 
days, an^ then you can go. I dow you better 
take to puttin’ your shoes on these cold morn- 
in’s an’ evenin’s.” 

‘^Well, I’ll git ’em out an put ’em on ef hit’s 
cold in the mornin’.” 

‘ ‘ Shoes wuz harder to come by when I wuz a 
gal than they air now, Almetty, an’ many’s the 
mornin’ I’ve het me a little piece uv a plank to 
stand on whilst I milked to save wearin’ my 
shoes when hit were a heap colder than hit is 
now, though my pap wuz a well-doin’ man, an’ 
we allers had shoes ; an old feller would come to 
the house an’ make ’em; but I’ve went bare- 
footed till near about New Year’s many a time 
when I wuz a gal.” 

‘^Them wuz old fashioned times, wa’n’t they, 
Orleny? though I’ve seed gals warm boards to 
stand on when they milked. Say, Orleny, old 
Eed is failin’ in her milk; she didn’t give but 
jist the flat tin bucket up to the ring.” 

‘‘Well, hit ain’t nothin’ unexpected, since she 
fit with Price’s old Pied an’ got her horn 
knocked ofiP. She’ll begin to mend when that 
place heals.” 

“Talkin’ about old Pied knockin’ her horn off 
reminds me uv a tale Uncle Ed’ard used to tell 
on old Patrick Ingold. Did you ever know old 
Patrick!” 

“Yes, I’ve knowed old Patrick in an about a 
lifetime, I reckon. Bill Price ’s woman up here 
is his gal, an’ he’s Heppy’s grandpap.” 

“Yes, I knowed he were. Well, you know 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


he^s said to be crazy; but some folks says he’s 
jist mean. Well, old Patrick come down by 
Uncle Ed’ard’s one mornin’ early, an’ hollered 
an’ axed Uncle Ed’ard ef he’d seed his cow go 
by thar; an’ Uncle Ed’ard axed him, ‘What 
kind uv a cow wuz she, Patrick!’ An’ Patrick 
says, ‘ Why, she wuz a sort uv a red pieded cow, 
with a horn off next to the fence an’ a tail ’bout 
as long as a piece uv rope. ’ ’ ’ 

“Yes, I’ve hyeard that told on old Pat- 
rick. ’ ’ 

“Well, I reckin he shore said hit, but I’ve 
hyeard folks say he had quare actions and 
handled foolish talk so his folks could keep him 
on the county.” 

“Well, they hain’t nothin’ to hinder him from 
bein’ quare. His pap an’ mammy wuz own 
born cousins, an’ both was quare to start with. 
Heppy puts me in mind uv that pore old woman 
a heap uv times. Pore little Heppy ! I hain ’t 
seed none uv them folks sence the workin’. 
Teacy must be gone off som’ers.” 

“Yes, she’s been up on the creek, she said. 
She driv her cows down by while I wuz at the 
milk-gap, an’ said she’d be down arter while 
to help me bind my quilt ef I wanted her to, an ’ 
I told her I didn’t care.” 

“Well, I’m goin’ out now to finish choppin’ 
the vines off’n that last row uv sweet taters; 
I’m afyeard they’s a’ready frosted. You an 
Teacy can bind the quilt, an’ we’ll begin diggin’ 
the taters to-morrow, an’ then you can take your 
trip.” 

“Yander’s Teacy now, crossin’ the gap.” 

182 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


^ ‘‘She must have somethin’ on her mind, takin’ 
sich a early start.” 

Orlena waited to hear if Teacy had heard 
anything strange while up the creek, and then 
went off with her hoe. Almetta went to her box 
in the loft and brought her shoes, which she had 
put away after the “working,” and set them 
under the back side of her bed. She brought the 
diamond quilt, which only lacked the binding, 
and she and Teacy sat opposite each other just 
inside the door of the lower house, with the 
quilt between them, and worked leisurely and 
talked, and Emma Jane played on the porch, 
with the corn-cob doll. 

Teacy did have something on her mind which 
she had come on purpose to discuss, hut there 
was no cause for hurry, and it was some time 
before she turned the conversation quite nat- 
urally upon the “working” and the happenings 
of that day. After a while she remarked, 

“I seed Hence while I wuz up the creek, an’ 
he wuz kinder mad because you wouldn’t have 
nothin’ to do with him that day at the workin’.” 

“Who said I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with 
him?” 

“Why, he ’lowed you slighted him.” 

“Well, I never slighted him, an’ he knows 
hit.” 

“Well, hit ’peared like he sorter felt like you 
did.” 

“I wouldn’t ’a’ slighted nobody at the 
workin’ ef I’d ’a ’wanted to, an’ I never had 
no call to slight Hence. He never done nothin’ 
to me.” 


183 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘‘Well, he^s got sort uv a pettish turn, Hence 
has/’ 

“He jist allers wanted to be muched over,” 
said the girl quietly. 

“I’ll inshore hit to be that away. He wuz at 
Bob’s one day whilst I wuz up thar, an’ me an’ 
him wuz a-settin’ out in the porch by ourselves, 
an’ he kept runnin’ on with his foolishness, an 
he ’lowed the reason you didn’t have more time 
fer him wuz easy to see; an’ he ’lowed he wuz 
beknowinst to hit before he come to the 
workin’.” 

“Hence allers had a knowin’ turn. I wonder 
what he ’lowed the reason mought be ! ” 

“Well, he brought in somethin’ ’bout Gran. 
He ’lowed he ’d met up with you an ’ him goin ’ up 
the creek, that time Betty wuz ailin’. He says 
that Gran talked moughty friendly, hut you wuz 
moughty dry, he says, an’ he jist put hit down, 
he says that you thought three wuz a crowd. ’ ’ 

“I’ve knowed two to be a crowd when t’other 
one wuz Hence.” 

“I’ll inshore hit,” said Teacy, with a know- 
ing chuckle which was lost on Almetta. “He 
sorter talked like him an’ you had been big 
sweethearts onct.” 

“Did he? What did he say?” 

‘ ‘ Why, I never paid no strict ’tention to what 
he wuz sayin’. I knowed without an accident 
he wuz lyin ’. ’ ’ 

“What kind uv lie wuz he tellin’?” asked 
Almetta, with dawning suspicion. 

“Well, he wuz jist runnin’ on, havin’ some 
kind uv fool talk about you an’ him when you 
184 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


used to stay to Ann^s/’ She paused and then 
went on, “Hit didn^t sound the best in the world 
though. ’ ^ 

‘ ^ What did he say about us T ’ asked the girl. 

“Why, I told you he sorter let on that you 
an’ him wuz big sweethearts.” 

“Is that all he said?” 

“Well, somethin’ kindly like that. You know 
what kind uv talk a feller like Hence would be 
apt to have, I reckon. ’ ’ 

Almetta had begun to dislike the woman’s 
tone and manner. 

“Now, Teacy Price, I want to know pime 
blank what he said. ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Teacy, “I wa’n’t aimin’ to tell 
you all he said, but ef you must be to know, he 
come right out an ’ said that Gran wuz welcome 
to you fer his part; that you’d been his woman 
allers ago, before you wuz Gran’s. He made 
me swear not to tell hit. Said he liked you 
moughty well, an’ wouldn’t want to make you 
mad. ’ ’ 

Teacy, who was in perfect good-humor her- 
self, had expected the story to anger Almetta. 
While she thought it possibly true, she attached 
very little importance, and no blame whatever, 
either to the boy or to Almetta, of both of whom 
she was very fond. She did not judge herself 
by the moral law, and was lenient to others who 
did not use it in the ordering of their lives. 

There were two things about the friendly 
little girl which the unmoral woman had no 
power of guessing; one was that a little 
“knocked ab^out” girl who knew all the evil of 
185 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


nature, and so frankly forgave others, could and 
did choose to carry her own soul and body un- 
spotted through the mire. The other was the 
height of passionate resentment which might 
possess a white soul. 

Almetta had never been accused before. 

Teacy looked up from her sewing expecting 
an angry denial, but the teasing smile which 
was broadening on her own face disappeared 
as she looked into Almetta ^s, which was white 
and drawn. 

‘^Now, I wouldnT feel that away about hit, 
Almetty, ef I wuz y6u, ’ ’ she hastily began. ^ ‘ Of 
course I knowed he wuz ljm\ I never meant 
to tell you that last part, but you would be to 
have hit. ’ ’ The woman was alarmed, and as Al- 
metta still did not stir nor speak, she hurried 
on vehemently, ‘‘I knowed he wuz bound to be 
lyin^; he^s never been knowed to tell the truth. 
DonT take on that away, Sugar she begged to 
the silent, motionless girl. ‘‘I jist sorter told 
hit fer a little joke anyway. I don’t think 
Hence meant hit to be believed. I know he 
didn’t.” 

She would have gone on to belittle and finally 
to deny the whole thing ever having been said, 
but an angry flash from Almetta stopped her 
backward flight and left her speechless. 

Almetta stuck her needle through the cloth 
and carefully wound the thread around it. Get- 
ting up she went to the back side of the bed, 
stooped and brought her shoes from under it. 
She slipped them on without stockings and tied 
them tightly. 


186 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


Teacy watched her in miserable, fascinated 
silence as she walked out to where a dusty old 
pair of saddle-pockets hung on the wall, and 
reaching in, brought forth a pistol. This she 
put in her apron, of which she made a ''poke’' 
by catching up the bottom, twisting it and tuck- 
ing it in at the belt. 

She took down her sunbonnet, and without a 
word even to answer Emma Jane’s insistent, 
"Whar doin’, Metty, whar doin’?” walked out 
and away. 

Orlena came in just in time to see her going 
down the path to the gate and to hear Teacy 
swearing to herself gently but fervently. 

"What’s the matter, Teacy?” asked Orlena 
sharply. 

"Well, me an Almetty wuz jist a-settin’ here 
talkin’, an’ I wuzn’t a-thinkin’ about a thing in 
the world when she tuck the spell.” 

"Where has she started now?” 

"To the head o’ Gab’l, I do reckon.” 

"What’s she started to the head uv Gabriel 
about ? ’ ’ 

"Well, sir, we wuz a-settin’ here talkin’ per- 
fect peaceable ; an’ the talk come up about Hence 
Duke. I spoke an’ told her Hence wuz sorter 
mad at her; an’ she kept insistin’ on me tellin’ 
her what Hence had been sayin’ ’bout her. I 
tried ever’ way in the world to git out o’ tellin’ 
her, but she would be to know, an’ I had to tell 
her the talk he wuz handlin’.” 

"What sort uv talk?” 

"Why, ’bout her an’ him bein’ sweethearts 
up on the creek, an’ all uv a suddint she flew 
187 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


mad; an^ ef she ain’t took Jimmy’s pistol an’ 
gone after Hence, I don’t know the signs.” 

‘^Did she take the pistol?” 

‘‘She took ’er too, right out er them saddle- 
pockets ; an ’ I reckon she aims to go till she finds 
’im too. She put on her shoes.” 

“Teacy, hit ’pears to me that a great old 
woman like you might er had more sense!” 
Orlena spoke angrily. “An’ I reckon you jist 
let her take that old pistol an’ start without 
tryin’ to stop her?” 

“I begged her not to go,” lied Teacy, “an’ I 
wuz jist a-fixin’ to go arter her when you come 
in. I’ll go now an’ bring her hack.” 

“No, I’ll go myself,” said Orlena, taking up 
the hoe she had set in the corner. “I’ll go the 
nigh cut an’ come up with her a ways down the 
road. You stay here an’ mind the place tell we 
git back. ’ ’ 

“What air ye goin’ to do with that hoe?” 

“Well, ef anybody axes ye where I am, I’m 
gone a-sangin’.” 

“Hain’t hit very late to sang?” 

“Yes, hit’s late to sang, but hit’s late fer 
you to be overly particular about what you tell ; 
besides, I am goin’ sangin’.” 

Orlena cut across the field and caught up with 
the girl in a little while. They walked together 
some minutes in silence, but when Orlena sug- 
gested that they take a steep by-path across the 
hill, “as hit’s a long ways to the head of Gabriel 
around by the road,” Almetta protested that 
she did not want her to go at all. 

Orlena said firmly, “Almetty, I’m a-goin’ 

las 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


to see you through this. The varmint needs 
killin^’^ And she began the steep climb at 
rather a killing pace. 

Almetta^s strength was half consumed by 
hurt and anger, and half way up the steep 
mountain-side her knees gave way beneath her 
and she sank down. The angry spots which 
had followed the dead white had left her face, 
and she was pale except for the dark circles 
under her eyes. The sweat stood in fine beads 
upon her lip and forehead. She looked ten 
years older than the barefooted girl who had 
stood warming over the stove in Orlena^s 
kitchen, telling jokes on old Patrick, a short 
hour ago. 

‘‘That’s right,” said Orlena, sitting down 
carefully beside her. “We’d better rest a 
while, an’ this is a very good place.” They sat 
in silence, and after a while Orlena said, “The 
last time Ann wuz at my place I come this 
fur on the way with her, an’ we set right here 
an’ rested. Hit’s a very pretty fur-seein’ 
place. ’ ’ 

She fanned with her bonnet a few minutes 
and glanced occasionally at Almetta, who sat 
with closed eyes, white and rigid, bolt upright 
against a tree. After they had sat some time, 
and the girl’s breathing had become quiet and 
natural, Orlena said, “Almetty, where do you 
’low we’ll find Hence I” 

“Up about his pap’s.” 

‘ ‘ Air you shore he ’s there ? ” 

“Yes, him an’ Jerry’s Tom is in a job gittin’ 
out ties off ’n his pap’s land, Teacy said.” 

189 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


‘‘I wonder where that is? His pap’s got a 
big boundary. ” 

‘‘They’re workin’ on the right fork uv the 
branch.” 

“Did Teacy say he wuz workin’ there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you know the place very well?” 

“I’ve cow-hunted an’ dug sang all over hit. 
Hit’s jist above Uncle Ed’ard’s.” She still sat 
rigid with closed eyes. 

‘ ‘ Oh, well, then, you ’ll know the way all right. 
But they’s one thing we’ve got to be careful 
about. You don’t want to git Sid mixed up in 
nothin’.” 

“They won’t be nothin’ to mix up in when 
I’m through.” 

“Air ye aimin’ to kill all uv ’em?” 

“All uv who?” 

“All uv Hence ’s folks?” 

“No.” 

“Y^ell, hain’t he got some brothers about the 
size uv Sid?” 

“Yes, he’s got two jist uv a size.” 

“Well, you reckon they won’t sorter take hit 
up with Sid, ef you wuz to start trouble?” 

“They mought.” 

“They’s jist as shore to as hit’s ever raised, 
an’ arter the talk about settin’ in the bushes, 
that Sid’s already handled, I’d be sorter afyeard 
fer him.” 

“Orleny,” said the girl fiercely, “I hain’t 
never been no man’s woman, an’ Hence had ort 
to have to punish fer sayin’ hit.” 

“Yes, darlin’, he ort ; an’ he will some o’ these 
190 


TEACY. GOSSIPS 

days, without a doubt. Don’t you never worry 
’bout that. Hence is too headlong to ever see 
bis way to the end; an’ one uv these days some- 
body’ll lay him cold; an’ bis pore old mammy, 
who is a very good old woman too, will set an’ 
rock herself back’ards an’ for’ards an’ cry an’ 
tell bow good Hence allers was to her. Pore old 
woman, I feel mougbty sorry fer her, but I don’t 
see no remedy.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and 
Orlena went on. 

Hit’s mighty bad to have to stan’, but 
sendin’ a sinful soul to the judgment an’ break- 
in’ a old woman’s heart an’ startin’ a young 
boy in trouble mougbt be a lot worse.” 

Almetta, . down whose cheeks the tears were 
streaming, took the pistol from her apron and 
banded it to Orlena, who took it without com- 
ment, and tied it up in her own. 

Moving nearer, she took the bead and shoul- 
ders of the weeping girl in her arms and let 
the storm rise and spend itself unchecked ex- 
cept for an occasional, ‘‘Don’t worry, darlin’.” 

At last Almetta lay quietly, and the tears were 
stanched. Orlena plucked a twig and fanned 
her gently as she lay with her head on her 
lap. 

“Now, Almetty,” she began, “you’ve allers 
bore a good name, an’ ever ’body that is any- 
body, confidences you. You don’t need to pay 
no ’tention to Hence ’s talk. He growed up a 
very civil, nice-appearin’ boy, but he’s tuck to 
f ollerin ’ bad ways an ’ he ’s lost his credit. They 
ain’t nobody confidences him.” 

191 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


^‘Doii^t you low a heap uv people will believe 
his talk?’^ 

^^Well, some mought fer a while, but moughty 
few gits through this world without gittin’ 
scandalized some; an^ they ainl much profit in 
raisin’ a furse about a pyore lie. You wouldn’t 
’a’ holp the cause airy grain by shootin’ Hence ’s 
whole connection; folks wouldn’t uv thought a 
bit higher uv you fer hit.” 

‘‘Wouldn’t they ’a’ knowed in reason that I 
wouldn’t shoot him over the truth?” 

“No, honey. Innercent and Guilty has ac- 
tions so much alike at times that they own 
granny can ’t hardly tell ’em apart. An ’ I never 
knowed a killin’ to prove nothin’ nor holp 
nothin’.” 

“Hit mought holp a body’s feelin’s.” 

“Well, that kind uv help ain’t lasty; an’ 
Hence ’ll be a heap wuss off carryin’ his lie than 
you will livin ’ hit down. Hid you ever have any- 
thin ’ to do with him a-tall, Almetty?” 

“Yes, me an’ him did talk a little onct, when 
I wuz a-stayin’ at Granny Ann’s. You know 
they live very dost, jist up the Right-Hand 
Fork, a little ways above Granny’s ; an’ he used 
to stop in passin’, an’ I liked him very well. 
When me an’ him finally fell out Uncle Ed’ard 
tole me I’d lost a good chanct, that I ought to 
’a’ married him, but I wuzn’t but thirteen years 
old, an’ Granny bemeaned Uncle Ed’ard fer 
havin’ sich talk, an’ me so little an’ young.” 

“What did you an’ Hence fall out about?” 

“Well, we hadn’t railly talked much. I 
wanted to play an’ didn’t take much intrust in 
192 


TEACY GOSSIPS 

hit an’ hadn’t the fust idy uv bein’ in yearn- 
est.” 

‘‘Wuz he in yearnest?” 

“Well, he mought ’a’ been, the’ I never paid 
much ’tention to hit tell finally he come thar one 
Christmas day an’ brought candy an’ apples an’ 
stayed around all day. That evenin’ me an’ 
him walked down the road a way an’ he give me 
a little brass ring, an’ tried to buss me. I 
slapped him as hard as ever I could, an’ hit 
made him moughty mad.” 

“Was that when you fell out!” 

“No, I’d sorter slapped him in the eye a lit- 
tle. I never aimed to do that, an’ when I seen 
I ’d hurt him so bad I wuz sorry. I talked sorter 
good to him, but still I wouldn’t let him buss 
me.” 

“What did you fall out about!” 

“Well, I’ll jist tell you how it wuz. Hit all 
happened between Christmases. It wuz Christ- 
mas day when I slapped him, an’ jist twelve 
days arter that I drownded him. ’ ’ 

“You drownded him ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir. Hit wuz Old Christmas night an’ 
a whole passel uv us wuz up at old Joel Bent- 
ley’s, an’ we wuz aimin’ to sit up till midnight, 
telling ghost tales an’ singin’ ballads an’ the 
like. We wuz aimin’ to go to the barn at mid- 
night to see ef the cattle wuz kneelin’ down. 
We had hyeard old folks say that the cattle all 
knelt down an’ lowed at midnight uv Old 
Christmas. 

“Well, we wuz tellin’ tales an’ singin’. They 
wuz several uv us an’ ever’ now an’ then some- 
193 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


body would step out on the porch fer a drink 
er ter see the moonlight er somethin’, an’ no- 
body paid any ’tention to who wuz cornin’ er 
goin’. Along about eleven o’clock I stepped out 
fer a drink. I went to the upper eend uv the 
porch to throw out the water that wuz left in 
the gourd, an’ there wuz Hence standin’ there 
with his arms around Buddie’s Sissy, an’ she 
allers wuz give up to be the wust gal on the 
creek, an’ they wuz bussin’ an’ smootchfn’ ; that 
wuz before she married the fust time. The up- 
per eend uv the porch is high otf ’n the ground, 
an’ they wuz, in a manner, right under me. 
They didn’t see me, an’ I jist tiptoed back to 
the bucket an’ got me a gourd full o’ water, an’ 
come back an’ tuck a good aim an’ spilled hit 
right slap-dab on ’em.” 

Almetta looked up into the woman’s eyes, and 
both smiled as she continued. 

‘^They ducked back under the eend uv the 
porch, an’ I put up the gourd an’ went back to 
the fire an’ sorter laid over on Suze’s lap an’ 
shet my eyes. 

‘^Well, they staid a few minutes an’ didn’t 
hear nobody laughin’ ner nothin’, an’ jist 
thought hit wuz a accident an’ nobody beknowin’ 
to hit; an’ they slipped in an’ scroughed up to 
the fire. Jerry’s Tom wuz playin’ the dulcimo 
an’ singin’ ‘Wild Bill Jones,’ an’ nobody no- 
ticed they wuz wet an’ nothin’ wuz said. 

“I kep’ my eyes shet tell I did go sound 
asleep; an’ when they all started to the barn, at 
twelve o ’clock, Suze had to wake me up. 

“Well, the cattle wuz all down asleep, with 
194 


TEACY GOSSIPS 


their legs doubled up under ’em, an’ some 
claimed they wuz kneelin’, an’ t ’others claimed 
they wa’n’t; an’ all uv us that lived dost went 
home. 

‘‘Hence had brung me; an’ I wuz afyeard to 
’fuse to go home with him ; but when he tried to 
talk an’ buss me ag’in, hit made me so mad I 
could ’a’ died. I tuck his little ring otf an’ told 
him hit faded so bad I ’s afyeard hit would pizen 
me, an’ he’d better give hit to Sissy. 

“Then he accused me uv throwin’ the water 
on ’em, but I never owned hit untel I wuz safe 
on the porch at Granny Ann’s an’ the door open. 

“He come the next day though, an’ me an’ 
him fussed ag’in, an’ he has been sparkin’ Sissy 
ever since, an’ I believe she likes him. I wuz 
so good tickled at gittin’ to drowned ’em, I 
never stayed mad a bit.” 

“Did he ever try to spark you any more*?” 

“No, not to say spark, but we’ve mostly got 
along very well, an’ I allers counted him to be 
a friend.” 

Orlena sat waving the little twig a few min- 
utes, and asked, 

“Almetty, how did you know where that old 
pistol wuzf ” 

“Why, I remembered bangin’ my sunbonnet 
on that same nail over that old pair uv saddle 
pockets onct, an’ Jimmy come in an’ lifted hit 
off, very careful, an’ hung hit on another nail. 
I seed he had somethin’ very particular in them 
pockets, an’ I just ’lowed hit wuz the pistol. I 
hadn’t seed her nowheres else about.” 

“Yes, she’s laid in them old pockets fer fifteen 
195 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


year, an’ never been discharged in the time uv 
hit. I do ’low she’d kick a body’s brains out, 
ef they wuz to undertake to discharge her. ’ ’ 
Would they be any harm in jist lendin’ her 
to Hence!” asked Almetta grimly. 

^H’m afyeard hit would be a felonious act,” 
said the woman. 

^ ^ Hit would be a religious trick, ’ ’ said the girl. 


196 


X 


ALMETTA DISAPPEAES 

O ELENA had some difficulty in persuading 
Almetta to return to the same roof with 
Gran, but Hence ^s close neighborship both to 
Betty and Granny Ann made it undesirable for 
her to go to either place, and Orlena pointed 
out that there was no other home into which 
she could go as a matter of course and unques- 
tioned. She promised to see to it that Teacy 
did not talk, and thought that Gran need never 
know that the ugly things had been said. 

On the way home Orlena dug a ginseng root 
which she had been meaning to go after for 
more than a year, and they arrived home before 
noon. Gran and Jimmy were unharnessing in 
the barn when they returned and Teacy was 
getting dinner. 

Orlena displayed the sang root, a beautiful 
four-years’ growth and put it to dry in a con- 
spicuous place. She slipped the old pistol to its 
former resting-place, and Teacy, having disap- 
peared, was dishing dinner when the men 
came in. 

Almetta put away the quilt which Teacy had 
finished in her absence, and took oft her shoes. 
She brought the milk and butter from the 
197 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


spring, waited upon the table and ate the small- 
est ‘‘bite’ ^ herself when the others were through. 

As Jimmy left the house he called back to her 
that she and Janie would have to move their 
playhouse out of the crib, as he was wanting to 
patch the floor before time to throw in the corn, 
and she had better move her books and Janie’s 
“pretties.” 

It was a Saturday afternoon, and being well 
up with the work, Jimmy was off on his horse 
to look at a piece of property he was thinking of 
trading for, leaving Gran about an hour’s work 
on the sled and the rest of the day to himself. 

Gran noticed that Almetta looked white and 
tired, and whispered to her not to worry about 
the playhouse, that he ’d bring in the things him- 
self when he finished the sled. Her eyes filled 
with tears, and she could not help the trembling 
of her hands as he took them and asked 
anxiously if she were ill. 

“I’ll be all right,” she whispered as she pulled 
away and began gathering up the plates. Or- 
lena came with the dishwater, and he passed 
out reluctantly. 

After the dishes were washed she took the 
child and went out to the crib. They had been 
there some time, and she had gathered all the 
things together in an old pasteboard box, and 
was sitting with her back against the wall; 
Emma Jane was fast asleep on the floor, and 
she was trying to read the stories in the Fifth 
Header, and hoping that Gran would guess 
where she was and come, when she heard voices 
outside. She was surprised and shocked, on 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 

looking through a crack, to see Gran standing 
at the corner of the new barn with Hence Duke. 

What could Hence be doing here? and so 
earnestly engaged with Gran? Why, oh, why 
had she consented to come back? 

Her face flamed, her heart throbbed. It 
seemed for a while as if they were examining 
something, and Gran put his hand in his pocket. 
But there were some planks leaning against the 
barn, and she could not see clearly what they 
were doing and could not hear the conversa- 
tion. 

After a while Hence turned away, and as he 
walked off, coming by the crib, paused, and she 
heard him say, ^‘Well, Gran, she may not be no 
better than some others, but I thought a whole 
sight uv her when she wuz mine. Take good 
care uv her, an’ ef you ever git tired uv her 
maybe I ’ll take her back. ’ ’ 

Gran made no answer, and stood quietly 
watching Hence, who disappeared around the 
barn. He did not know that Almetta was in the 
crib and passed close by without stopping on 
his way to the house. Almetta could see that 
he wore a troubled countenance. 

She had no doubt, from Hence ’s last word, 
that the talk was about herself, and felt like 
screaming, ‘^0 Gran, hit’s all a lie!” but she 
was sick and could scarcely breathe. She lay 
on the crib-floor a long time, numb with pain, 
but after a while her brain cleared, and she 
planned what seemed to her the only thing left 
her to do. 

She took a short pencil from the pasteboard 
199 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEVS RUN 

box, and writing a note to Orlena on the fly-leaf 
of her book, propped it open against the wall 
with a cob. She touched Emma Jane’s hair 
with her hand, and selected an article from the 
box, as if she would take it, and then put it 
back. She propped the door open, so that it 
could not swing to, making a prisoner of the 
child, and herself walked out and away. 

When Gran reached the house he found Or- 
lena alone, and he began to tell her of his inter- 
view with Hence. 

^H’m afyeard IVe played an awk’ard fool 
trick on myself,” he said ruefully, at the same 
time displaying a plated gold watch which, 
though showing signs of wear, was ticking away 
merrily and was apparently in good condition. 

‘‘How did you come by ’erf” asked Orlena. 

“Well, Hence Duke come by a while ago an’ 
seen me out in the barn-lot. I was on my way 
to help Almetty clean out the corn-crib, an’ he 
come over in the lot an’ offered me the watch 
fer ten dollars.” 

“Did you give him ten dollars fer her!” 

“No, I never give him no ten dollars, but I 
offered him three, an’ after so long a time we 
traded. ’ ’ 

“Did he come over here a-purpose to sell 
you that watch I ’ ’ Orlena spoke with apparent 
unconcern, but she had some anxiety over the 
interview. 

“No, I don’t ’low he did. He wuz a-passin’ 
and seen me in the barn-lot, an’ he wuz anxious 
to git shet uv ’er. Said he wuz needin’ the 
money. Ef I hadn’t been wantin’ one fer so 
200 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


long I wouldn’t ’a’ teched hit. He told a very 
straight story about gittin’ hit in a trade, but 
I’m axshly afyeard he stole hit, or either he’s 
runnin’ off f’m some other meanness, an’ 
needin’ a little money moughty bad.” 

‘H’ll inshore hit to be one er t’other,” agreed 
the woman. 

‘‘He ’lowed hit to be the best watch in the 
world. I told him I’d seed better — though I 
don ’t know where hit wuz. ’ ’ Gran grinned rue- 
fully and added, “I jist didn’t want to stand his 
braggin’. I’m axshly afyeard hit’s a costly 
watch. ’ ’ 

“She’s very pretty,” said Orlena, taking it in 
her hands. 

‘ ‘ I could see he thought moughty high uv her. 
I believe he a little bit thinks he’ll try to buy 
her back one uv these days. As he wuz a-leavin’ 
he charged me to take good care uv her.” 

“My advice would be to trade her the fust 
chance. It might be awk’ard to be ketched in 
possessions uv her.” 

“I wisht I hadn’t bought the fool thing. 
Maybe I can come up with Hence som’ers an’ 
git him to take her back. I wuz aimin’ to help 
Metty, but I believe I’ll go off down the road 
an’ see ef Hence has stopped anywheres.” 

He was gone till suppertime, but had not 
come up with Hence. 

Out at the crit> Emma Jane slept long and 
soundly and awoke refreshed. She sat up and 
looked about for some time, and then seeing the 
open book against the wall, scrambled up, got 
it, and laid it, closed, alas! on the geography 
201 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


with the speller, thus losing the note Almetta 
had written for Orlena. From the box of pret- 
ties she selected a broken piece of flowered 
china, and then backed herself, crawfish fashion, 
out of the open door and dropped easily to the 
ground; evidently she had done it before. 

An hour later Orlena, going to call Almetta, 
found the child sitting in the edge of the wood- 
pile, leisurely scraping in the soft earth with 
the bit of flowered china. 

‘‘Emmy, whereas AlmettyT’ she asked. 

“Huhr’ said the little one, cheerfully. 

“Where is Metty, Sugar T’ 

“Huhr’ she repeated. 

“Don’t you know where Almetty isf” 

“Me not,” was the still cheerful rejoinder. 

Then Orlena called, “Almetty, Almetty,” but 
there was no answer. 

She went to the crib and looked in, climbed 
the ladder of the old barn, and looked in the al- 
most empty loft, and coming down called again, 
but there was no answer. She tried the new 
barn, but found no one. 

“Her gone,” said Emma Jane wisely and em- 
phatically. 

“Where has she gone. Sugar?” coaxed Or- 
lena, and put the little one through a line of 
suggestive questions, but it was useless, the 
child did not know. 

Orlena was more troubled than she admitted 
to herself, and kept saying, “Well, she’ll come 
in arter a while, from som’ers.” She tried to 
stop looking for her, and went about getting 
supper; but a long search which was to be con- 
202 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


ducted without admitting it to the world had 
begun. And the great sadness of it was knock- 
ing premonitorily at the woman’s heart. 

When Jimmy and Gran missed the girl at 
supper- time, Orlena said calmly, ‘‘Well, she’s 
been wantin’ to visit her mother’s grave before 
all the leaves fell, an’ I told her this mornin’ 
she could go. Hit’s a very good time to spare 
her now; the fodder’s all in. She may go to 
see Betty before she comes back.” 

“Well, the sweet taters is not in,” grumbled 
Jimmy. 

“I’ll git the sweet taters in. Teacy is owin’ 
me some.” 

“I wuz expectin’ on havin’ her help gether 
the corn,” said Jimmy crossly. 

“Mayl3e she’ll not take up,” said Orlena 
smoothly. 

Gran felt altogether discomfited that the girl 
should have gone off without mentioning it and 
with no word of good-by. He felt inclined to 
resent Orlena ’s not mentioning it. He couldn’t 
understand it; but something in Orlena ’s man- 
ner made him know she was following the girl’s 
wishes. 

He started to work with Jimmy the next 
morning, disconsolate, having found Orlena al- 
together noncommittal in regard to Almetta’s 
sudden departure and almost curt in her man- 
ner of dismissing the subject. 

As soon as the men were out of sight Orlena 
went to the bars and called Teacy Price. She 
intimated that Almetta had gone up about 
Ann’s and Betty’s, but she scolded Teacy and 
203 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


blamed her, and gave orders that she was to 
ask no questions and have nothing to say about 
the girl. Teacy was really grieved, and 
’penned her honor, she hoped she might die 
right there in her tracks, ef she ever let on to 
knowing a thing er axed a question, and she’d 
have no part in norating a miration about hit. ’ ’ 
Orlena, knowing the girl was upset and fear- 
ing she might be ill, felt like starting otf some- 
where to look for Almetta and try to bring her 
back, but reasoned that whatever had taken her 
away, she herself could not help matters by 
following now, especially as she might go in the 
wrong direction. She had never thought that 
she would really commit violence, and was con- 
fident that she would hot even think of it now ; 
but she was not so sure about Gran. She hoped 
Hence was leaving the country, as Gran had 
suspected, and that this matter might be kept 
from the latter, at least until Hence was safely 
away. 

Her heart was full of a strange uneasiness, 
and she longed to know the whereabouts of the 
girl whom she found herself loving so dearly. 

When Mary Betts came on an errand Orlena 
forestalled inquiry by asking, 

‘^Did you see Almetty goin’ up to Betty’s 
yesterday?” but Mary, who had come on busi- 
ness and left in a hurry, had not seen her. 

Orlena spent the next few days digging sweet 
potatoes. The patch was next to the road, and 
she managed to have a talk with every one that 
passed, but no one mentioned having seen Al- 
metta. 


204 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 

Slie found it impossible to rest easy without 
knowing something definite, and had about 
made up her mind to go to Gabriel Angel for 
help, when on the afternoon of the third day 
after Alrnetta disappeared the old man rode by 
and stopped. She was at home alone, and she 
told him all she knew and her great uneasiness, 
and he undertook to look about. Doubtless she 
would be easy to find, and he would bring her 
word, if he didn’t actually bring Alrnetta her- 
self. 

don’t scarcely believe she’s gone up 
Gabriel to Ann’s nor Betty’s. Mary Betts was 
here yesterday an’ hadn’t seed her pass. But 
she mought be across the hill f’m Betty’s, on 
Prickly Ash, at Lang Bolin’s place.” 

^^What would she be at Lang’s fer?” 

^^Well, you ricollect her mammy died an’ 
wuz buried there.” 

‘‘Yes, I know.” 

“Well, she wuz a-sayin’ to me the very 
mornin’ before she left, before any uv this come 
up, that she’d like to go an’ see her mother’s 
grave before the leaves fall an’ see ef the fence 
wuz up good around hit, an’ I told her she could 
go right now in a day er two.” 

“Oh, well then,” said the old man, “I 
wouldn ’t give myself no more trouble about hit ; 
thar’s right whar she is, an’ I’ll jist ride on up 
an’ git ’er. Hit ain’t more’n a couple o’ miles 
beyant my place. ’ ’ 

“Well, I hope you’ll find her. I can’t hear 
uv a soul that ’s seed her, but thar ’s a very good 
trace all the way from here to the head uv 
205 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


Prickly Ash, along the tops nv the ridges, an’ 
I ’low she ’s kept to hit. ’ ’ 

‘‘Shore, shore, she’s went to Lang’s an’ then 
maybe on over to Betty’s to see how they come 
on.” 

“Well, wherever you hnd her, don’t fret her 
to come back. Jest tell her that I told you to 
tell her, ef you happened to see her, to take her 
time an’ have her visit out, an’ come back when- 
ever she’s ready, an’ me an’ her ’ll piece the 
Eosy quilt.” 

Gabriel Angel arrived at Lang Bolin’s an 
hour before dark, as they were sitting down to 
supper, and knew before the meal was over that 
they had not seen Almetta. 

As they sat on the tiny porch after supper, he 
asked if any one lived in the little house up in 
the Cove now. 

“No, hit’s stood empty fer a long time. The 
whipperwills wuz moughty bad to holler around 
hit, an’ sence they has been a grave so dost, 
people complains uv its bein’ lonesome,” Lang 
said, and added that his wife had declared just 
the day before that she had seen “a white-look- 
in’ somethin’ slippin’ ’round up thar,” but he 
had just laughed at her. 

The next morning Uncle Gabriel said he was 
going across the ridge to Gabriel on a little 
business, “an’ he ’lowed he’d sorter stop in 
passin’ an’ take a look at Talithy’s grave, to 
see ef hit wuz in proper shape.” 

He took the bridle-path which led across the 
hill from the head of the little branch called 
Prickly Ash, to the Left-Hand Fork of Gabriel, 
206 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


more than half-way to the top. He hitched his 
horse and made his way through the rank 
growth of purple asters, golden rod and trailing 
red bittersweet, over the edge of the cove to the 
little grove of sugar-trees where the grave of 
Talitha Angel lay. 

‘‘Well, she’s shore been here,” he said, as he ' 
stood leaning against the rude rail-pen that en- 
closed it. 

Nature had adorned the pen with soft gray, 
green festoons of the wild clematis, which had 
woven itself in and out of the rails and gone to 
seed in feathery masses. But a human hand 
had cleared the little enclosure of weeds and 
placed the bunches of scarlet leaves among the 
“farewell summers” upon the grave. Gabriel 
stood and looked a long time, and then taking 
otf his hat and bowing his head on the fence, he 
prayed aloud for the young girl. 

He turned at last and went to the cabin. On 
the hearth he found a little bunch of dry twigs 
and a handful of dead leaves, with two or three 
matches from which the sulphur had been 
scraped. She had evidently found them in 
some familiar cranny and vainly tried to ignite 
them. She must have spent the first night in 
the cabin, and Gabriel shook his head sadly and 
suffered for what he felt she must have endured 
of cold and hunger. At the spring there were 
traces of slim, bare feet, and there he knew she 
had been refreshed. 

He found no sign of her present whereabouts 
nor in what direction she had gone, but he be- 
lieved she had crossed over the ridge to 
207 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


GabriePs Branch and that he would soon find 
her. 

He spent the rest of the day making appar- 
ently casual visits at Betty’s, Ann’s, and even 
at Hence ’s father’s. A number of persons 
asked him when he’d seen Almetta. He told 
them all quite carefully that he had seen her 
^‘jist t’other day, an’ she wuz lookin’ moughty 
well.” They offered no information. He in- 
quired for the health of the ailing and old all 
the way down the creek, and more than one 
woman brought him a dipper of water to the 
fence and inquired if he had ^‘hyeard anything 
new or strange” and was questioned in turn, 
but he neither saw nor heard of Almetta. 

’Twas long past the middle of the afternoon 
before he arrived at Jimmy’s horse-block, 
where Orlena met him with an anxious face. 
‘‘No,” he said, “he hadn’t found her, though 
by the signs she was bound to have been at her 
mother’s grave.” He told Orlena the details 
of the trip and admitted that he was troubled, 
though there were still places that she could be. 
Gabriel had gathered that Hence Duke had left 
the country, but they neither one believed his 
leaving had anything to do with Almetta ’s dis- 
appearing. He and Orlena both thought it best 
to keep the occasion of Almetta ’s disappearance 
from Gran for a while yet, as Hence might still 
be lurking about. 

Jimmy should be told at once. 

“Of course she was apt as not to come back 
herself at any time, ’ ’ declared Gabriel. 

“Pray God she will!” said Orlena fervently, 
208 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


and they both looked away up to the top of the 
ridge by which they were sure she had gone. 

There seemed nothing to do now, but G-abriel 
said he would be back in a few days, and if she 
had not returned nor been heard from, they 
would plan what, if anything, should be done. 

Many a girl had disappeared from her own 
father’s home without causing so much distress. 
Even Jimmy, who usually paid little attention 
to the ‘‘help” other than to get all the work out 
of them he could, and pay them their just dues, 
was genuinely distressed. 

“Do you reckon she mought ’a’ gone with 
Hence!” he questioned Orlena. 

“Naw, she never went with Hence.” 

“Well, she wuz a nice little critter, an’ not a 
grain underfoot. I hope she don’t come to no 
harm.” 

When Gabriel returned Orlena had thought 
over every place that Almetta had ever men- 
tioned as having lived since her father’s death. 

“Her an’ her ma and Sid had lived about, 
arter her paw died, wherever they wuz work to 
be had, an’ she knowed a heap uv people an’ 
seemed to feel moughty friendly to most uv ’em. ’ ’ 

“She never seed no strangers,” said Gabriel, 
“an’ wa’n’t bold nuther.” 

“Now as to her folks,” continued Orlena, 
“she’s jist got one sister livin’ besides Betty.” 

“That’s all, an’ she lives in Tennessee.” 

“Yes, an’ Almetty don’t know whereabouts, 
nor she don’t know where none uv the oldest 
boys is. She told me jist here t’other day that 
she hadn’t hyeard from Lize nor them oldest 
209 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


boys in allers, an’ I don’t believe she’d ’a’ 
started bareheaded an’ barefooted to find none 
nv them.” 

“Well, I’ll take my time, sorter, an’ try to git 
’round to all them places you say she’s talked 
most about.” 

“Well, Gabriel, I hate the^ idy of you under- 
takin’ to do so much traipsing ’round; an’ ef 
the gal hadn’t ’a’ been so wrecked in her mind 
over Hence ’s talk that mornin’, I wouldn’t be 
to see you do it; but somehow my heart’s plum 
sore an’ I can’t rest. Of course Jimmy will 
help some, an’ Gran too, when he has to be told. 
I ain’t expectin’ her to be found easy.” 

“Now, Orleny, honey, don’t worry,” said the 
old man; “she’s honest an’ afyeard uv nothin’, 
an’ the Good Old Man will not be misput to take 
care uv her; an’ I don’t mind the traipsin’. I 
traipses a heap anyhow.” 

They parted with heavy hearts, Orlena to her 
round of daily cares and a habit quickly formed 
of coming to the door to observe every one that 
passed, and standing long minutes, shading her 
eyes with her hand, gazing first up the road 
where the bunch of white-oaks cut off the view, 
and then down to where the road curved with 
the river out of sight. 

Gabriel took the road again. He took it 
many times, and in so many different direc- 
tions, before the deep snows of winter set in, 
that people began to wonder if the old man 
wasn’t beginning to be “ a little quare. ’ ’ When 
he let two of his near neighbors almost go to 
law over a trifling matter before he took 
210 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 

thought to intercede, it was rumored that the 
old man ‘‘must have somethin’ on his mind.” 

Of Almetta little mention was made. It was 
usual for a girl without strong family ties to 
shift around from one neighborhood to another. 
Her friends on the head of Gabriel supposed 
she was down on the river somewhere, and 
Orlena’s neighbors — save Teacy Price — sup- 
posed she was somewhere about the head of the 
creek. 

Her sister Betty, to whom, as the weeks went 
by with no sign of the girl’s whereabouts, it was 
thought best to tell the situation, was not dis- 
turbed. She said “Almetty had always been 
independent, and would turn up all right before 
long.” She acquiesced in keeping silence in 
regard to her, agreeing that it might cause un- 
pleasant talk. Hence being missing too. 

Betty really believed the girl had gone with 
him, and did not care. 

TVIien it seemed to be certain that Hence was 
clear of the country Orlena told Gran the whole 
story, of what Almetta had heard from Teacy, 
of what she had done, and of their conversation 
the morning before she left, and how reluctant 
Almetta was to return. 

He was deeply affected, but asked few ques- 
tions as Orlena told the story. 

“I know now she was in the crib, Orleny, an’ 
seed him talkin’ to me. I hadn’t seed her come 
out ; I reckon she come out whilst I had stepped 
out to the barn fer somethin’. I reckon she 
thought he wuz tellin’ me his meanness, an’ 
when I didn’t strangle him in his tracks she 
211 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEVS RUN 


’lowed I wuz a-believin’ hit. Pore little gal! 
Ef I could jist git my fingers on Plence’s neck 
now ! ” 

A dull color burned on his cheeks and his 
hands were clenched. After a while he said 
quite simply, — 

‘‘Orleny, she had been talkin’ to me a little 
grain sence the workin’.” 

^^Had she, brother?” 

‘^Yes, a little. She wuz very techy an’ inde- 
pendent, but I could tell she wuz a-likin’ me.” 

Orlena told him how everything possible was 
being done to find her. After that his work was 
poor and fitful, but Jimmy ‘‘looked over it.” 
He was gone for weeks at one time, with noth- 
ing to say for himself on his return. They did 
not know whether he had been searching for 
Almetta or Hence, but guessed it might have 
been both. 

In the meantime he had been served with a 
warrant of arrest for stealing the watch, but 
there had been a hitch somewhere, and after 
giving bail he was never summoned to appear 
for trial. He heard that Hence had bragged 
that he would give that “fine gentleman” a 
little trouble before he left the country. 

Hence was occasionally heard from from an- 
other State, but with no mention of Almetta. 

As the fall wore on and early winter set in, 
Orlena urged Gabriel to give up the search. 
She had given up hope of finding the girl by 
searching and began to fear for the old man’s 
health. 

Winter set in, and the night of the first deep 
212 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


snow Gabriel Angel stopped in at dark. The 
snow had already begun to fall, and he was 
easily persuaded to spend the night. After 
supper he sat leaning upon his staff, gazing into 
the fire. 

‘‘Have you been lookin’ fer Almetty ag’in, 
GabreH” asked Orlena. 

“Yes, I had about give up lookin’ fer her an’ 
hadn’t been out fer some time, but I shore 
thought I had a trace uv her this time. But I 
reckon hit were a mistake,” he said wearily. 

‘ ‘ How wuz hit ? ” 

“Well, I hyeard uv a gal named ‘Angel’ up 
about the Eaccoon bend neighborhood, away up 
the river, but when I got thar the folks had 
moved off. When I axed about the fam’ly they 
spoke uv the Angel gal, an’ described Almetty 
pime blank, but her name wuz Talithy. Hit’s 
sort uv a fam’ly name with the Angels.” 

“Yes, an’ some uv ’em is wonderful fair- 
skinned too, with them same blue eyes an’ yal- 
ler hair, like Almetty.” 

“Well,” said Jimmy, “on one excuse or an- 
other I reckon we have give ever ’body in miles 
uv here a chanct to tell hit, ef they knowed whar 
she wuz, unless hit wuz old Harm France on 
Catamount Eidge, an’ he’s deef an’ couldn’t 
hear ef he wuz axed, an’ dumb an’ couldn’t tell 
ef he knowed. But, mates,” he went on, “I’m 
shore lookin’ fer her back. She’s little an’ 
light an’ could slip betwixt harm an’ danger 
without tippin’ airy one! Yes, sir, I’m ex- 
pectin ’ her back ! ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Gabriel sadly, “I don’t know. 

213 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS BUN 


I’m beat myself. I’ll resign my commission. 
She’s either dead or gone cl’ar out of our reach, 
an’ we’ll jist have to wait the Old Man’s time to 
reveal her whereabouts or to return her. ’ ’ 

No one spoke, and he went on: ^‘She wuz a 
well-turned, beau-ti-ful child, with a character 
sweet as the lilies uv summer an’ pyore as the 
snows uv winter, an’ she’s in the hands uv 
God.” 

Gabriel spoke in elevated terms as of the de- 
parted, and it was the first time she had been 
ispoken of in the past tense. 

Gran felt it like a stab, and walked out and 
sat on the kitchen porch in the cold, sobbing 
miserably. 

never had a gal about me that I loved like 
I loved her! Pore little Almettyl” Orlena’s 
face was wet with streaming tears. 

Emma Jane in Orlena’s bed stirred and called 
in her sleep, ‘‘Metty, Metty.” 

^‘God bless hits little heart! Hit calls 
* Metty, Metty,’ all the time, but Metty ’s gone.” 

They sat in silence for a long time. At last 
Orlena went to the door and called to Gran. 
‘^Come on in to the fire, brother; hit’s gittin’ 
moughty cold.” She held the door open until 
he came in. ‘ H ’ll put another piece uv kiver on 
this other bed in here; an’ you an’ Uncle Gabrel 
can lay right in here by this fire. Hit’s gone 
out in the t ’other house. ’ ’ 

It was not only the cold but the loneliness she 
dreaded for the broken-hearted boy. 

A while before midnight Jimmy had got up to 
mend the fire, when he stepped to the door to 
214 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 

see if the snow was still falling. He noticed no 
sound, but Gran, who had slept only fitfully, sat 
up suddenly. 

^'What’s that quare noise I hear, Jimmy 
he said. 

ain’t hyeard nothin’,” said Jimmy, but 
haying walked out on the porch, he returned 
quickly, saying, ‘^Come out here. Gran; I be- 
lieve somebody’s havin’ trouble in the river.” 

It was true enough. Some one had missed 
the ford and was struggling in the water. The 
whole house was astir in a minute and out. 

Jimmy and Gran put put in the boat, Orlena 
and Gabriel standing on the bank in the snow. 
Soon a horse, with the saddle dragging to one 
side, struggled out of the river and up the steep 
bank, just as Gran seized the body of a man as 
it came up what seemed to be the second time, 
though the snow-clouds made the seeing poor. 

Jimmy pulled the boat into shore, and Orlena 
hurried in and had a blanket on the floor in 
front of the fire when the men came in with their 
burden ; Gran was really carrying him. 

‘‘Lay him right here, brother,” she directed. 

“He may be alive, but he shore carries like a 
dead man,” Gran said quietly as he deposited ^ 
his burden upon the floor. The yellow firelight 
glistened upon the wet, pallid face, and all stood 
still in their places. Gran was stooping with 
one arm of the man still in his grasp. He laid it 
down gently and turned away as Orlena mur- 
mured, “Pore little Hence!” 

The three other people worked faithfully 
with the body. Gran fetching and carrying obe- 
215 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


diently and almost burning the house, keeping 
up the fire, but the faint flicker of life could not 
be coaxed to rise, and at the turn of the night 
he died. 

Bill Price went for his people and the next 
afternoon his body was taken away. 

Gran, who had not spoken a friendly word to 
Teacy Price since Orlena had told him of her 
thoughtless gossip, went back in the house after 
helping to put Hence ^s coffin on the wagon, and 
found her sitting on the wood-box sobbing con- 
vulsively into her apron. Gran came and stood 
by her, laying a hand upon her shoulder. 

Teacy!’’ he said. The woman, who had 
been crying all day as she worked feverishly at 
first one thing and then another, raised her 
swollen, tear-stained face to him. 

‘‘What is it. Gran?” she asked dully. 

“Teacy, I don’t reckon any uv us can expect 
to see little Almetty any more this side uv 
Heaven, but I’ve had to forgive Hence, an’ I 
don’t wish you no harm.” 

“Gran, I’d gb to the eend uv the world on 
my knees, ef I knowed which way to start to 
bring her back. ’ ’ 

“Well, Teacy, I’m afyeard we’ll not git to 
bring her back, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll have to 
spend a good deal uv time on our knees ef we 
ever mean to go to her. ’ ’ 

“I’ve prayed, an’ I’ve prayed,” she sobbed, 
“an’ I’ve cried my heart out,” and after a con- 
vulsed silence she added, “an’ that ain’t all.” 

“What ain’t all?” asked the boy gently. 

“I ain’t done a wrong thing sence she went 
216 


ALMETTA DISAPPEARS 


away, Gran, an^, so help me God, I never will. 
Orleny has read the Bible to me and God has 
forgive me my sins, an ^ I’m a changed woman; 
but, oh, if I could see Almetty one more time 
while I live ! ’ ’ 


217 


XI 


GEAN LEAVES FOE THE WEST 

T ie winter settled cold, with rough weather, 
and there was little stirring out by the 
people of Gabriel Eun or Creely Creek or even 
along the river. 

The men who worked at the timber observed 
short hours; and many a family up and down 
the creeks spent the whole of the stormy days 
in little windowless houses, with the doors shut, 
the fireplaces furnishing light, heat and ventila- 
tion. There was much time for talk, and many 
an old tale was retold and deeds of daring and 
adventure recounted. Gossip lost nothing in 
the telling, and anybody that brought news, or 
a song or a story, was welcome. 

Bibles and almanacs, fiddles, banjos and dul- 
cimers, came into requisition where there was a 
book or an instrument and any one to read or 
play; though there was many a home in which a 
fiddle or banjo was not allowed to come, their 
association with the dance being too intimate. 

Politics with its binding ties and religion with 
its shades of ^‘doctrine’’ furnished matter for 
serious discussion or argument. Many a tale 
was told of the river, which in summer the chil- 
dren waded, but which in the time of tide came 
down a foaming mass, bearing on its bosom to 
218 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


the outside market the timber, every log of 
which was known to its owners as intimately as 
the face of a friend, and could be sworn to in 
court if necessary. 

The river, with its ‘^bottomless holes’^ and 
swirls and shoals, where stalwart men had won 
through or lost their logs and labor, and per- 
haps their lives; where desperate rescues had 
been effected after untoward accidents, or bat- 
tles fought over their choice of a landing. The 
river was not only the great artery of commerce 
but the center of romantic adventures; and 
Granny Price would leave off for the time her 
plaint of fear that the “Dimocratic 
elected in November, would order her pension 
stopped, to hear Bill tell of his prowess in tak- 
ing long rafts through the “White Pine Shoal, 
or brag that on the next tide he and Gran would 
take out the finest raft that ever floated the 
river. 

Everything came in for discussion in these 
shut-in times: and the inner details of killing 
scrapes, which able lawyers had tried, by fair 
means or foul, to get before juries, and had 
failed, were known and discussed freely by 
many a fireside, both of friends and enemies; 
while the escapades of moonshining and con- 
federating were common jests. 

Of the news items which trickled in to the 
family at the mouth of GabriePs Eun, one was 
to the effect that a man over in another county 
had been tried for killing a cousin of Jerry 
Taulbee’s over a card-game the previous sum- 
mer and had been “penitentiaried^^ for life, 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEL’S RUN 


Jerry being the main witness against him. He 
was said to be the very man who had ridden 
through the country during the last fall inquir- 
ing about calves but buying none. There 
seemed little doubt that he had shot at the 
school teacher or had it done. It was said that 
he had stayed hidden out from home most of 
the time until cold weather had driven him in, 
and had been arrested in his own kitchen at 
last. 

Jerry Taulbee had made no enemies at the 
mouth of Gabriel’s Eun, and people were gen- 
erally satisfied at hearing that his assailant was 
‘‘sent up for life.” 

They talked it over, and chuckled at how Or- 
lena had protected Jerry and fooled them all. 
Jerry himself wrote Orlena a nice letter, telling 
her that he was leaving for the West, and thank- 
ing her for her kindness. 

Jimmy, who was of a restless, out-door na- 
ture, found excuse to take a few trips, and 
knocked about out of doors a good deal, but 
Gran found more condolence in Orlena than any 
one ; and many a long talk they had as he turned 
an ax-handle or mended his shoes, while she knit 
the heavy woollen stockings that were worn 
both winter and summer. 

She drew him out to talk of his early life and 
his mother, of his home and “Miss Sally,” and 
the folk of “Eoaring Fork.” She told him of 
J ohn, her smartest best boy, for whom the little 
empty house had been built and who had died of 
a fever; and many things of interest that she 
had seen or heard; and gave him much good 
220 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


counsel. They talked of many things, but ever 
the conversation turned back to Almetta. 
Sometimes they spoke of her as if she had died, 
but other times as if the spring might bring her 
back. 

Bill Price and Gran were to take out Jimmy’s 
fine, big raft of oak and chestnut timber, when 
the big waters came in the spring, and Gran had 
made up his mind to go West at that time. He 
told Orlena of it one evening, after Jerry Taul- 
bee ’s letter came, as he sat by the fireside tack- 
ing soles on his shoes. 

‘‘I’m shore goin’, Orleny,” said Gran. “Al- 
metty left on account uv me, an’ she may be 
stayin’ away on the same account. I’m goin’ 
to git clear out uv the country, an’ maybe she’ll 
come back to you. Ef she does, you may tell 
her I love ’er an’ trust ’er, an’ ef she ever feels 
like she wouldn’t mind seein’ me you can let me 
know, an’ I’ll come back from wherever I be; 
but ef hit would pester her. I’ll never set foot 
in the country ag’in.” 

Orlena hated the thought of losing Gran too, 
but there might be something in his reasoning, 
and he was so disconsolate here that a Western 
trip might do him good — she had no doubt but 
that he would eventually return — so she made 
no strong objection. 

“I’m a-goin’ ter make everythin’ as right as 
I can before I go away,” he said. “Jake Sin- 
gleton says he knows pime blank where Hence 
got the watch; he brung hit from below last 
spring, an’ I’ll jist take hit back an’ hunt up 
the owner as I go. I hain’t afyeard uv takin’ 
221 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


my chances on bein’ locked up fer hit, an’ I’ll 
jist stan’ to lose my three dollars.” 

‘^Well, I believe hit would be all right fer you 
to take hit back,” said Orlena. 

‘‘They’s another little matter I’m aimin’ to 
fix up too. I wuz a-tellin’ Almetty last sum- 
mer, while me an’ her wuz a-makin’ the tater 
hills, about the time pap caused me to kill a 
couple uv old Sizemore’s shoats, an’ he under- 
tuck to have pap jailed on account uv ’em. 

‘‘Pap told mam, a long time atterwards, that 
he could a spared the price uv ’em an’ been 
contented, but he didn’t ’low to lay in jail over 
no man’s lean hogs.” 

“What did he want ’em killed fer?” inquired 
Orlena, who had never heard the story. 

“Well, they kept a-breachin’ on us an’ wuz 
a-destroyin’ a sight uv young corn an’ needed 
killin’ very bad.” 

“Hogs is moughty hateful that away at 
times,” said Orlena sympathetically. 

“Yes, an’ I never give no thought to payin’ 
fer ’em till jist lately; but ef I’m a-goin’ to 
leave the country I’d ruther to leave no debts 
ner no grudges behind me: an’ I believe at the 
last pap hisself would ’a’ liked to ’a’ had them 
hogs paid fer. Mam said he got moughty 
pleasin’ jist before he died. 

“I’d allers felt sorter hard at him fer the 
whoopin’ he give me over killin’ ’em — an’ me 
not seein’ no jestice in hit — an’ now I’d sorter 
like to do somethin’ that would ’a’ pleased him 
before I leave. I reckin I wuz a little at fault 
anyhow; I wuz pyorely keen to git to kill ’em,” 
222 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


^‘111 inshore you wuz/’ said Orlena, smiling. 

‘‘Mam wuz a-talkin’ to me a whole lot about 
pap the last time I wuz at home. I wuzn^t 
there when he died; I wuz over on the Roarin’ 
Fork drivin’ a log-team fer Uncle Jim. They 
had come very high waters an’ a body couldn’t 
scarcely travel a-tall, an’ they couldn’t go atter 
me. Pap wuz dead an’ buried before I knowed 
he wuz bad off. I knowed he had been ailden, 
but I never knowed he wuz dangerous. 

“Mam said he called ’em all ’round him the 
day before he died an’ told how he wanted ’em 
all to do. He give ’em a whole lot uv good 
counsel an’ told ’em he wanted ’em to meet him 
in heaven. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That was moughty nice, ’ ’ said Orlena. 

“Yes, he ’lowed he never had f offered gittin’ 
drunk, nor hadn’t never killed nobody — but one 
man that kinder got him hemmed up an’ what 
you mought say compelled him to kill him. 
He said he hadn’t done nothin’ to punish fer, 
an’ he wa’n’t afyeard to die. He told ’em all to 
be good to mam, an’ what he wanted done with 
ever ’thing. He told mam to keep the shot gun 
over the fireboard as long as she lived, an’ then 
he wanted me to have her. He ’lowed I had the 
best eye amongst ’em. 

“Atter he talked to ’em all, mam says he had 
’em all put out but the two main oldest boys, 
an’ then he told ’em they’d better sell the 
stiff.” 

“He did have a moonshine stiff then!” asked 
Orlena. 

“Yes, but he told ’em he’d been studyin’ on 
223 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


hit a heap, an^ whilst he had never done no 
wrong stillin’ on hit hisself, hit wuz a danger- 
ous business fer them that didn’t understand 
pime blank how to follow hit; an’ he ’lowed he 
sorter thought hit wuz wrong to engage in any- 
thin ’ that a body mought git hurt at ; and ’twas 
ag’in’ the law anyhow! He told ’em that old 
man Sizemore had been wantin’ to buy hit, an’ 
hit mought make fer peace betwixt the families 
jist to let him have her, an’ save trouble. He 
said he believed in bein’ peaceable jist as fur as 
you could, an’ mam says pap allers wuz peace- 
able as long as he wuz let alone. 

‘‘He told ’em to pay any little debts he 
mought be a-owin ’, an ’ he mentioned one er two 
that he claimed he didn’t rightly owe an’ had 
been ’fusin’ to settle. He told ’em that ef any- 
body had the heart to put in a claim fer ’em, jist 
to pay ’em; he said they’d make ’em pay ’em 
anyhow, an’ him not thar. 

“Mam says he wuz allers a master hand to 
f oiler his own way uv doin’ right, an’ hit warn’t 
allers accordin’ to strict law, but when he come 
to die, ’peared like he wanted ever ’body satis- 
fied. Hit’s been a heap uv satisfaction to 
mam.” 

Not long after this talk with Orlena, Gran 
went to his mother’s for a visit. He told her to 
take care of what “property” (stock) he had 
on the home place, an’ ef he was not back in a 
year, to use or sell according to her needs. 

He was unusually kind and gentle with his 
younger sisters and gave them much good ad- 
vice. The virtues which he enjoined upon them 
224 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


to practice were those he had seen and loved in 
Almetta. 

He had a neighborly visit wdth the Sizemores, 
took upon himself the whole blame of the killing 
of the shoats, and paid for them. 

From home he went on into ‘Hown^’ and came 
back to Jimmy ^s with a new telescope for his 
baggage, new shoes and a ‘‘few little tricks 
he thought he would need. He had brought 
Orlena a present, and for Emma Jane a “ pop- 
pet’^ with hair, such as he had seen in the shop 
windows ‘ ‘ below. ’ ’ 

After this he was impatient to be off ; but he 
had promised Jimmy to stay and help Bill Price 
take out the big raft, which was a very valuable 
one, and the “tide^’ was very slow in coming. 

There was a good deal of rain, and the water 
rose a number of times ; but always short of the 
“river-men’s^^ marks for log-raft water. 

A few tie-rafts were sent out, but only an 
occasional one got through the shoals. It was 
the last of March before “full waters” came, 
and all up and down the river the cables hold- 
ing the great logrrafts were untied. 

Then the river and its banks were alive with 
men and women and children and great excite- 
ment prevailed. Every able-bodied man and 
grown boy, and some not grown, were in some 
way interested in the rafts of logs and railroad 
ties tied up along its banks. 

Even Gran’s heavy heart responded to the 
exhilaration in spite of its every-day burden 
and the added sorrow of the partings. He had 
corresponded with Jerry Taulbee, and arranged 
225 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


to go to him, in the West, after the first tide. 

Sid Angel had begged to go down on the tide 
an3 Uncle Gabriel had reluctantly consented for 
him to go with Bill and Gran. 

Jimmy had ridden to the railroad on horse- 
back, and would be at the bank ^ ^ below, ^ ’ prob- 
ably with a buyer, when the raft arrived. It 
had been put together on a sand-bar, a mile 
above the house, and it looked very handsome as 
it floated by with Bill and Gran at the oars, one 
at each end, and the excited boy waving good-by 
to Uncle Gabriel and Orlena and Emma Jane. 

Poor Orlena felt quite bereft. She had been 
up long before daylight and had packed them a 
generous dinner of fried bacon and hobby bread, 
with apple pie and a pot of coffee, in a stout 
wooden box. 

The day was bright and warm, and Sid 
splashed about, getting his feet wet with great 
unconcern in what appeared to him a true man- 
nish fashion. 

‘‘HainT yo’ feet moughty wet, brother T’ 
asked Gran of him, as he stood churning the 
water in his shoes. 

‘ ^ Uhuh ! ’ ^ he responded cheerfully. 

The men gave the boy turns at the oars in the 
^‘retches’’ (reaches) and pointed out places of 
interest of which he had heard. 

Along after dinner, as the afternoon wore on, 
it became apparent that the river was not so full 
as they thought, and the water was going out 
so fast that they must needs go with it or be 
hung up. They agreed without discussion that 
they would take no risks with so large a raft, 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


but would run all night, without even tying up 
anywhere for supper. 

A chill, misty east wind sprang up in the late 
afternoon, and Sid, who had been hailing per- 
sons upon the bank and the men who had passed 
them on lighter, swifter rafts, fell silent, and 
with his hands in his pockets sat as high and dry 
as he could upon a huge log in the middle of the 
raft. 

^‘Air ye cold, brother asked Gran, sympa- 
thetically. 

‘‘Not much,^’ he answered cheerfully. 

At dark the wind laid, but it was cold and 
misty. Gran declared he had stuffed himself 
so at dinner that he wasn’t a bit hungry; and 
Bill and Sid ate what had been left in the box. 
It made scarcely a full supper for either, as 
they had divided with a couple of men who had 
come out to them in a boat and had travelled 
with them the better part of the day. 

The mist made it necessary to keep a 
sharp lookout, and conversation ceased. Sid 
stretched out upon his log, but after a fitful nap 
sat up hugging his knees. 

“Air ye hongry, brother?” called Gran. 

“No,” answered the boy, remembering that 
Gran had had no supper at all. 

About midnight, after the light of a full moon 
had struggled through the fog, a small light raft, 
floating rapidly, came by with a couple of half- 
drunken men in charge. It came in front of 
their raft just as they entered a narrow chute, 
and the tipsy oarsmen failing to hold it straight 
with the current, it turned suddenly sideways, 
227 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


and as Bill afterwards described it, ^‘jist 
whitfed around eend fer eend and bowed tbe 
bank.’^ Grants raft jamming squarely against 
it at this minute, it ‘‘buckled’’ up in the middle, 
breaking squarely in two and throwing the two 
tipsy men into the river. 

Gran and Bill had all they could do to keep 
their own heavy raft otf the bank, and only 
looked back in time to see that the men had 
crawled ashore and that half of the raft was 
jammed between the shore and a great rock and 
the other was floating after — apt to be a dead 
loss to the owner and a menace to other rafts. 

By the time Bill and Gran had righted their 
raft and were running smoothly they were wet 
with sweat. Sid scrambled to his feet and came 
toward Gran. 

“Wuz ye soared, brother?” Gran asked. 

“What wuz it?” parried Sid. 

“Ay, jist another busted raft! that makes 
two I’ve seed tore up to-day, an’ a world uv 
loose logs with no brand on ’em. ’Pears like 
a lot uv the boys is goin’ to lose their logs and 
winter’s work. Pore fellers, I feel sorry fer 
’em!” 

Sid began walking slowly up and down the 
logs. 

“I reckin ye are a little stiff,” said Gran. 

“Sorter,” he admitted. 

“Well, we’ll be in the main river by mornin’ 
and take our time. Bill an’ me knows a place 
where they’s fried eggs and ham to be had an’ 
plenty uv grounds in the coffee, an’ trees on the 
bank to tie up to, an’ we’ll stop fer breakfast.” 

228 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


^‘Well, I don’t care a grain how soon we git 
thar,” said Sid, ‘‘ner to the eend uv the trip 
nuther,” he added. 

‘‘Air ye sorry ye comeT’ 

“Naw, Gran, I hain’t sorry.” 

They reached the “eend” on the third day 
and found Jimmy waiting for them. 

After Bill and Gran had tied up the raft, 
turned it over to Jimmy, and received their trip 
money. Gran looked around for Sid. He found 
him sitting upon the wet ground, leaning on a 
rock, fast asleep. His clothing was besmat- 
tered with mud, both wet and dry; the water 
was dripping from his shoes, because his stiff 
and tired legs had failed him in the final land- 
ing and let him down into the water; his face 
was pale, and tired lines marked it older than 
it was. 

As Gran stood, hating to wake him, a num- 
ber of the men, weather-beaten and stooped, 
many of them looking years older than they 
were, and one who had a permanent limp from 
an accident with the logs, paused and looked 
with kindly interest on this little “brother” 
who had just made his first, never-to-be-for- 
gotten trip down the river ! 

“Pore little feller!” said Bill Price. 

Gran awoke him, and all set off together to 
take the train to the big town, where Sid was 
to see the world and from which Gran was to 
start to the West. 

He spent most of the day showing Sid the 
town, and hunted up the owner of the watch, 
who seemed satisfied at regaining his property. 

229 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


The next morning, having bidden farewell to 
such of the men as he meant to have a farewell 
with, Gran was standing at the ticket office win- 
dow of the ^ ‘ other depot ’ ’ waiting for the ticket 
to the place in the West which he had just asked 
for, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. 

He looked up into the eyes of Jake Singleton, 
the deputy sheriff. 

<<IVe got a little paper here to sarve on ye, 
Gran, ^ ’ said the deputy. 

Gran was homesick, lovesick, and sick for 
his mother and his friends, and quite desper- 
ate. 

When the meaning of Jake Singleton’s words 
dawned on him he turned with an ugly look and 
said, slowly, in a tone low and even. 

‘^Pardner, I’d jist as soon kill one man as 
another, an’ ef you lay a hand on me I ’low 
hit’ll be you.” 

^‘Why, you needn’t take no exceptions to me. 
Gran,” said the sheriff pleasantly. don’t 
think that little paper’ll hurt ye. Jist step 
around here an’ read hit,” said Jake, putting it 
into his hands. 

Some minutes later the leisurely agent, who 
had taken his own time in making out the long 
ticket, advanced to his window, and after look- 
ing around and waiting impatiently for some 
time, asked where that chap was that wanted 
the ticket to ‘ ‘ Oklahomer, ” and if he was ex- 
pecting to go this week,” but no one replied. 

The agent was still fuming and making futile 
efforts to locate the Western tourist when Gran 
and Jake, at the other side of town, swung onto 
230 


GRAN LEAVES FOR THE WEST 


the rear platform of the train just pulling out 
for the mountains with their friends. 

“Why, Gran,’^ exclaimed one of them, “I 
thought you wuz goin’ West to git your 
growth.’’ 

“I wuz tell Jake put me under arrest,” he 
said. 

“What’s the matter, Jake?^’ they questioned. 

“Well, he ain’t been up to no tricks hisself,” 
said the officer. “He’s jist wanted hack up the 
country on a little case.” 

Neither he nor Gran would say what it was, 
and one of the men allowed that “Gran were 
lookin’ so pleasin’ he didn’t believe he much 
minded losin’ his trip nohow.” 


231 


XII 


TALITHA CUMI 

T he ‘‘river men^^ had been coming back in 
troops for two days, tired and bedraggled, 
but light-hearted and merry, after the outing 
and a glimpse of the outside world. The women 
were listening with breathless eagerness to 
their stories of the trip and what they had seen 
“ below. 

Orlena was expecting Jimmy at any time, 
though one of the neighbors had stopped to 
tell her that Jimmy had sent word for her not 
to be uneasy, that he might not be back for a 
day or two yet, as he would not come till he got 
his price for the timber. 

Uncle Gabriel had gotten uneasy about Sid. 
Some one who had come in the night before 
spoke of having seen him on the train, but re- 
membered no more about him. He should have 
been home by this time, and the old man feared 
that some one had thought it a joke to stop with 
him at some wayside “grocery^’ and make him 
drunk. Gabriel could tell that there had been 
a good deal of drinking on the trip ; there nearly 
always was. Men who never bought whiskey at 
other times, and scarcely ever got drunk, even 
at Christmas, would freely chip in with the boys 
232 


TALITHA CUMI 


and buy whiskey, upon a river trip. Many an 
ordinarily sober man came home from down the 
river quite hilarious and more than tipsy. 
Many a time a man would return as empty in 
pocket as he had gone, with nothing but his 
condition to show for his winter’s work and 
several hundred dollars’ worth of timber taken 
out. 

Gabriel had come down as far as Jimmy’s to 
inquire for Sid, but neither Jimmy nor Bill 
Price, in whose company the boy was tp return, 
had come. 

Orlena and Gabriel were sitting on the horse- 
block, guessing at the possibilities of what 
might have delayed them, when three persons 
came walking around the bend of the road. 

Orlena stood up hastily and shaded her eyes ; 
Gabriel stepped otf the block, and into the mid- 
dle of the road and stood a moment shading 
his. After a pause he said : 

‘‘Gran an’ Sid!” He paused tensely and 
tried to go on, then chokingly, “An’, an’,” but 
he could not venture it, and Orlena, who had 
been straining her own eyes at the three ap- 
proaching figures, said solemnly, as if she had 
seen a vision, 

“Hit’s shore to be her, Gabrel. Hit^s no- 
body but Almetty!*^ 

They did not speak again till the party came 
up. The young people had seen the old man 
and woman watching, and Almetta came on rap- 
idly. She looked older than when she went 
away, taller and more mature. She put her 
arms around Orlena ’s neck and clung as if she 
233 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


would never let go ; finally, reaching an arm to 
Uncle Gabriel, she clung to him too. 

They all stood weeping until finally Orlena 
said quietly, ^‘We’re proud to see you back, 
Almetty,^’ and she whispered brokenly, ‘^I^m 
proud to be back!’’ 

Jimmy rode in just as supper was ready. 
Gabriel and Sid had readily consented to take 
a night with them. 

Orlena, who had had Lizzie Price come in a 
while in the mornings for help since Almetta 
left, soon had supper on the table, and made 
Almetta sit down with the men while she waited 
upon all. 

know you are tired too, Almetty,” she 
said. ‘‘Where did you git dinner to-day?” 

“At Philip Gayheart’s.” 

“At Philip Gayheart’s? Why, how did you 
happen to be at Philip’s?” 

“Hit’s a heap the clostest to cut acrost the 
hill an’ come that a-way,” Gran answered for 
her. 

“Well, now, I don’t know as hit’s any closter 
much, ’ ’ said Jimmy. ‘ ‘ Hit may be a leetle ; but 
hit’s a heap rougher.” 

“Yes, hit’s a leetle the roughest,” said Gran, 
“but hit’s some closter.” 

Orlena asked Sid about his trip, and Jimmy 
boasted of the fine trade he had made with the 
timber, but Almetta was asked no questions un- 
til the meal was over. 

After the dishes were washed and she was 
settled in a low chair by the side of the fireplace, 
with Emma Jane in her arms, they all came and 
234 



Orlena made Almetty sit down with the men 

while she waited upon all. 




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TALITHA CUMI 


sat quietly while she told them, with few inter- 
ruptions, of how she went away and where she 
had been. 

^^‘What started you in the fust place!” asked 
Jimmy kindly. 

‘^Well, I wuz a-settin’ in the crib that arter- 
noon when Hence come to trade the watch to 
Gran, an’ I thought they wuz a-talkin’ uv me. 
Leastways I thought Hence wuz; I couldn’t 
hear Gran say a word, an’ I couldn’t see what 
they wuz a-doin’.” 

see!” said Jimmy, and all nodded under- 
standingly. 

^‘Well, hit ’peared like Gran must be a-be- 
lievin’ him.” She did not pause in the story, 
but laid her free hand on Gran’s for a moment. 
He would have kept it, but she drew it away. 

couldn’t stand that, so I studied on where 
I’d go.” 

‘‘Pore little gal!” murmured Orlena. 

“An’ then I remembered pap’s oldest gal. I 
hadn’t thought about her in allers. She lived 
with her mammy’s mammy, away yander, an’ 
she wa’n’t never accounted in our family a-tall, 
though we wuz friendly when we seed her, which 
wuzn’t often.” 

“I knowed about her too,” said Gabriel, 
shaking his head, “but I’d plum forgot 
her. ’ ’ 

“I remember all about her,” said Orlena, 
“though I had plum forgot her too. Her name 
wuz Nance.” 

“Yes, Nance wuz her name, an’ I jist hap- 
pened to remember about her. I knowed she 
235 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


had married, an’ I knowed her man’s name, an’ 
I ’lowed I could find the way to her.” 

“Pore little young’n!” murmured Orlena. 

“I wrote you a letter, Orleny, in my Fifth 
Reader, an’ propped hit open; an’ I never 
thought but what you’d find hit, and know I 
were safe, till Gran told me yesterday you 
hadn’t. The piece uv writin’ jist said that I 
wuz a-goin’ to a good place, an’ fer nobody to 
trouble about me. I’d give anything in reason 
fer you to ’a’ got hit. Hit makes me sick to 
think uv all the trouble I been to Uncle Gabrel 
and all uv ye.” 

“Don’t you worry, Sugar; that’s all over 
now. ’ ’ 

“Well, atter I’d writ the note an’ fixed the 
door so Emmy could git out, I slipped away. 
When I come to the bars Heppy Ingold was 
a-settin’ under the apple-tree nursin’ her pop- 
pet; I sez to her, ‘Heppy, I’m a goin’ on a little 
trip,’ sez I. ‘Shall I go by the main road or 
by the ridge U An’ she says, ‘The narrer steep 
road is the saftest.’ 

“I jist tuck hit fer a sign to slip away un- 
beknownst, an’ I clum to the top uv the ridge 
an’ kept right up hit. I got to the head uv 
Prickly Ash about dark. I stopped at mam- 
my’s grave an’ put some blossoms on hit, an’ I 
stayed all night in the little house we used to 
live in. I knowed where we allers kept a few 
matches, an’ I tried to make a fire; but the 
matches wuz dead an’ wouldn’t burn, an’ I 
reckon I would ’a’ froze ef I hadn’t had on a 
whole new linsey dress. I drunk at the spring 


TALITHA CUMI 


an’ found some apples on a tree by tbe house; 
an’ the next mornin’ I started right on to find 
Nance. 

‘‘I kept out o’ sight of folks; an’ hit must ’a’ 
been three o’clock, an’ I jist could drag, when I 
come to a awful lonesome-lookin’ place with 
great old black-lookin’ spruce pines an’ high, 
scary-lookin’ dives right in the middle uv hit. 
Jist up from the path a ways I seed a little 
house under a big high tree. Hit were the 
sweetest-lookin’ little house I ever seed to be 
in sich a illconvenient place. 

thought I’d go in an’ ax ’em to give me 
somethin’ to eat an’ let me stay all night. The 
door wuz open an’ I jist walked in. Supper 
wuz on the table, but not a soul in sight an’ not 
but one cheer in the house. I drug hit back f ’m 
the table an’ set down in hit. I couldn’t ’a’ 
stood another minnit ef hit had ’a’ been to save 
my life. 

‘‘Well, in a few minutes a old gray-headed 
man come in with a pail o’ water. He set hit 
down an’ turned ’round an’ looked at me an’ 
never said a word. 

“I said good evenin’, an’ he nodded his head 
an’ p’inted fer me to set up to the table. 

“I jist stared at him; an’ he put his hand to 
his years an’ his lips an’ shuck his head; an’ I 
knowed hit were the old deef an ’ dumb man uv 
Catamount Eidge, Hiram French, an’ that I 
wuz a long ways f ’m home.” 

“Pore little young ’n!” said Orlena again. 

“I reckon I looked very ga’nt, fer when I 
got up an’ started to the door he shuck his head 
237 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


hard an’ p’inted to the table. When I stopped 
he dipped some water into the wash-basin and 
p’inted to the hand-towel an’ then at the vittles 
on the table. 

‘^Well, I remembered Orleny telling me onct 
she didn’t believe he wnz crazy a-tall, an’ she 
’lowed he wnz a good old man. I wnz hungry 
as a bear an’ as weak as a cat an’ I ’lowed I’d 
resk eatin’ one mess with him anyhow, so I did. 

^^Me an’ him set down to the table, an’ I 
thought that wuz the civilest-turned old man I 
ever seed; an’ hit wuz shore the best mess of 
vittles I’ve et since I left home; but I moughty 
nigh went to sleep over hit before I wuz through. 
I hadn’t slep’ to do no good in the little house 
the night before. 

‘‘After supper I started to leave; but the old 
man shuck his head ag’in an’ showed me how 
he’d take a quilt an’ sleep on the ground under 
the big tree, an’ how I could bolt the door an’ 
sleep on the bed. I shuck my head an’ says 
‘No! no,’ but he looked so good an’ kept takin’ 
holt uv hisself an’ p ’intin’ out under the tree 
an’ then at the sun, to show me hit wuz goin’ 
down; an’ — well — I wuz afyeard uv Catamount 
Ridge wussen I wuz uv the old man cause I 
wuzn’t afyeard uv him a-tall; an’ I stayed. 

“When I got up the next mornin’ an’ undone 
the door to look out, the old man wuz a-settin’ 
on the step-block, perfect quiet, waitin’ fer me 
to take my time, an’ hit wuz away up in the day. 

“He come in, an’ I holp him git breakfast an’ 
wash the dishes ; an’ he never said a word when 
I started to leave. 


238 


TALITHA CUMI 


“I shuck hands with him an’ looked at him 
hard; an’ he nodded like he knowed I wuz thank- 
ful. Then he walked a little ways out the ridge 
with me; an’ when he stopped I couldn’t bear 
to part with him that away, an’ I told him God 
would bless him.” 

‘‘How did you tell him, honey?” asked Or- 
lena. 

“Why, I jist turned around an’ laid one hand 
on his breast an’ retched t’other one straight up 
to Heaven, an’ sorter beckoned down toward 
him. He folded his arms acrost his breast an’ 
dropped his head, an’ I walked off; an’ I ain’t 
seen him sence; but I hope to meet him in 
heaven some day. ’ ’ 

Uncle Gabriel murmured “Amen,” and after 
a pause she resumed : 

“I knowed hit couldn’t be so overly fur f ’m 
there to where Nance an’ Joe lived; an’ I left 
the ridge an’ come down to the main road an’ 
axed at several places. When they axed me 
who I wuz, I told ’em my name wuz Talithy 
Angel.” She paused for remark, and Orlena 
asked 

“Well, how wuz that?” 

“Well, that is my right name,” she said de- 
murely. “My pappy named me Talithy Cumi, 
atter my mammy; you know she were a Angel 
before she married pap, an’ had that very old 
name. 

“Pap ’lowed they had been a ‘Talithy Cumi’ 
amongst the Angels ever sence they crossed the 
waters f ’m the old country an’ maybe sence the 
beginnin’ uv the world. He never called me 
239 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


nothin’ but Talithy as long as he lived; but 
mammy never liked hit fer a name. She said 
she wuz plumb wore out with hit ; an ’ she nick- 
named me ‘Alm'etty.’ Everybody but pappy 
allers called me that, but hit’s set down, ^ Tal- 
ithy Cumi’ in the Bible. Betty’s got hit. 

“So when I got to Nance’s I told her I wuz 
her sister Talithy, an’ I ain’t been called nuthin’ 
else sence.” 

“I hyeard uv a gal bein’ in that neighbor- 
hood by that name ; but I never knowed hit wuz 
you, ’ ’ said Gabriel sadly. 

“You shore lost yourself right then,” said 
Jimmy. 

“Yes, hit wuz me,” she said simply, “but 
we didn’t stay there long atter I come. Joe 
had a brother livin’ down on the railroad, an’ 
he had been a-wantin’ to go down there for a 
long time, so we all moved in about a month 
a ’ter I went to live with ’em. 

“Nance an’ Joe wuz very good to me. They 
didn’t know I’d ever left Betty’s; an’ they 
thought I’d come from there; an’ I never told 
’em no better till yesterday. 

“When we moved away to the railroad I wore 
a old black sunbonnet an’ a big black apern uv 
Nance’s. We went in a waggin with oxens tell 
we got to the railroad, an’ then we rid in the 
kyars about twenty miles. When we went in 
the kyars we set down in the fust seat we come 
to an’ never moved tell we got off. 

“When the feller with the stiff-brim hat went 
to help me off’n the train he says, ^Be kereful 
there, old lady; you might fall.’ 

240 


TALITHA CUMI 


‘‘I jist tuck off that old bonnet an^ sez, ‘Air 
ye speakin’ to me, Mister T 

“He whistled, sorter low, an’ sez, ‘I reckon 
not,’ an’ he grabbed that little step-block an’ 
clum up them steps a-dyin’ laughin’, an’ I 
had the fust good laugh I’d had sence I left 
home.” 

The smiles that greeted this were very near 
to tears, and again Orlena murmured, “Pore 
little young ’n!” 

“There wuz three or four houses at ‘Deep 
Ford,’ the place where we got off at. We 
stayed with Joe’s brother tell Joe could find a 
house an’ a job. About Christmas we moved 
into a house with the railroad on one side an’ 
the river on t’other, an’ I watched fer some- 
body I knowed all winter; but I never seed a 
soul tell Jake Singleton an’ another feller tied 
up their raft there, t’other evenin’, an’ spent 
the night with us.” 

“Did Jake spend the night thar!” asked 
Jimmy with great interest. 

“Yes, an’ he set an’ told us a heap uv news 
about folks up an’ down the river; an’ he told 
about servin’ a warrant on Gran fer the watch; 
an’ he told us how Gran come to him jist before 
he went off an’ he told about Hence cornin’ that 
day an’ sellin’ the watch to him an’ how he 
bragged on her. He said Gran wanted to know 
who she belonged to so ’st he could take her back 
before he went West. Then I knowed hit were 
the watch an’ not me they were talkin’ about 
that day in the barnyard. 

“I axed Jake ef he ’lowed he would see Gran 
241 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


down below anywheres; an’ he ’lowed he 
monght, apt as not; an’ I fixed up a little piece 
uv writin’ an’ told Jake to give hit to Gran ef 
he could find him.” 

‘^He come in a pea uv not findin’ me,” said^ 
Gran gravely. 

Where did he find you, brother!” asked 
Jimmy. 

‘ ‘ I wuz at t ’other station with a ticket f er the 
place in Oklahomy pretty nigh bought, when 
Jake come in; an’ we had to about what you 
mought call ‘fly’ to catch the kyars cornin’ home. 
Sid wuz on the train, an’ I whispered to him 
when I had a chanct an’ told him not to say 
nothin’, an’ me an’ him slipped ofiP at Deep 
Ford an’ found Almetty.” 

“Well, the Lord be praised!” said Gabriel. 
“I reckon I never would ’a’ found ’er.” 

“Wuz that day before yesterday!” asked 
Jimmy. 

“Yes; me an’ Sid stayed all night with ’em, 
an’ yesterday mornin’ Joe an’ Nance an’ us all 
come on to ‘town’ together on the mornin’ train 
an’ knocked about a little.” 

“What become uv Joe an’ Nance!” 

“Why, they went on back home on the atter- 
noon train, an’ me an’ Almetty an’ Sid cotch 
a wagin an’ come on as fur as the mouth uv 
Haley’s Branch an’ stayed all night at John 
Bentley’s, an’ this mornin’ we come on 
walkin ’. ’ ’ 

“Well, we are moughty glad an’ thankful to 
have you all back,” said Orlena fervently, and 
all made assent. 


242 


TALITHA CUMI 


‘‘They ain’t no place like Gabriel’s Enn,’’ 
said Almetta, “an’ I’ve tried several.” 

The little group had suffered so much over 
the same sorrows and been drawn so closely 
together by the same ties, that now that they 
were reunited they spoke very frankly, and it 
did not seem out of place when Jimmy asked, 

“I reckon. Gran, maybe you’ll he a wantin’ 
the little house in the Green Holler after all!” 

“Yes, I reckon so,” said Gran. 

“Air ye aimin’ to talk to him now, honey!” 
asked Orlena softly. 

“We’ve a ’ready talked,” she said. 

Jimmy looked into the fire with a calculating 
squint. 

“Ye say Nance an’ Joe come to town with 
ye, yesterday!” 

“Yes, they come with us.” 

“Well, ef they’s goin’ to he a weddin’, yes- 
terday would ’a’ been a good time to a got a 
pair uv license, wouldn ’t hit ! ” 

‘ ‘ I reckin hit would, ’ ’ said Gran, with a quiet 
smile at Almetta, who was blushing and pre- 
tending to hold her hand between her face and 
the fire. There was another pause, during 
which Jimmy gently poked the fore-stick, send- 
ing up great showers of sparks. He was ap- 
parently lost in thought, but finally ventured, 

‘ ‘ Maybe that wuz a sort uv a infair ^ dinner 
ye et at Philip ’s to-day ! ” 

“Hit mought ’a’ been,” said Gran, smiling. 

“I jist ’lowed hit were,” chuckled Jimmy. 

1 Wedding. 


243 


ALMETTA OF GABRIEUS RUN 


I’m proud uv hit!” said Gabriel Angel 
earnestly. 

’lowed they’d never git hit told,” said Sid. 

‘‘Orleny,” said Almetta, looking earnestly 
into the woman’s face, ‘Mo you hate hit? I^m 
turned into sixteen now.” 

“No, honey, I’m well satisfied ef you air.” 

“I’m satisfied,” she said. “I’ve railly been 
likin’ Gran ever sence last summer when he 
made me make the tater hills right. An’ now 
we’ll live an’ die on Gabriel’s Eun.” 


244 


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